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“He asked if I knew where you were, like Lucas had. When I said I didn’t, he asked if I would give you a message. ”
I laid my palms on the table and leaned in close, waiting for the words just behind her lips. “What did he say?” I repeated.
“He told me to say, ‘Tell Secret I’ll be seeing her soon. ’”
Color drained out of my already-pale face.
“What’s so bad about that?”
“I have to go. ” I stood up from the table, swaying a little as the alcohol swelled inside me.
“Secret? What’s the big deal?” Her voice was filled with worry.
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s fine. ” I looked back at her, unable to tell her what I should have—to watch her back. There was no sense in worrying her. Nothing would happen to her now that I was home again.
“I have to go find Lucas,” I added, and she smiled knowingly, concern vanishing from her face.
“Yeah you do. ” She emphasized the first word. “Anything you want me to tell the bloodsucker if I see him again?”
I wanted to tell her to run if that happened.
“Just tell him ‘Not if I see you first. ’”
She shrugged, and I was gone before she could ask anything else.
Chapter Eight
I hadn’t lied when I told her I had to see Lucas. My restored need to find the wolf king was threefold. First, I intended to warn him about Holden; second, I really wanted to see him again; and third, I was drunk.
Rain Hotel was exactly as I remembered it—glossy, sleek and expensive looking. The interior was inviting, and I took a moment to enjoy the array of chandeliers and the full-wall fountain. The harpist was still in her hidden nook, only tonight she was playing “Bohemian Rhapsody”, which was quite a shift from the chamber music she used to play. The slick marble floor would have been hazardous to most women in such high heels, but I marched across the long lobby without any hesitation and pressed the elevator’s up button.
My head was swimming, and I probably should have let myself sober up before seeing Lucas, but I had to admit I needed the extra courage the booze had given me. As I waited for the elevator, I heard a loud, intentional cough from the desk.
“Excuuuuse me, miss, do you need help?” The voice was shrill and annoying, and I knew right away who it belonged to.
During my second visit to Rain Hotel, I’d been accosted by an unpleasant desk clerk named Melvin. Melvin was a were-ferret, which made him the first of such I’d heard of, but he was weaselly enough to fit the bill. I turned my head and fixed a withering glare on the shrewd-looking little man. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened.
“No, Melvin, I don’t believe I’ll be needing any help from you. ” I waved my black keycard at him and faced the elevator.
“Apologies, Miss McQueen. We weren’t expecting you. ”
I grunted and the doors swished open. “No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition. ” It was a foolish reply and I almost regretted it, but I was too busy chuckling to myself to let it show. His face was red.
I punched in my penthouse access code on a hidden keypad above the regular numbers and gave Melvin a satisfied wave as the doors shut between us.
The elevator whirred to life, which put at least one fear to rest. My key code hadn’t been revoked. The higher the elevator numbers climbed, the more my heart sank until it was swimming in my stomach, doing backflips in the beer. I let out a shaky sigh as the ride came to an end with a slight jerk and the doors opened into the foyer of Lucas’s penthouse.
The main hall was dark and quiet, and I stepped into the hallway, listening for any sign of life. All I could hear was my own breathing. I followed the hallway for a few steps and saw a light on in a room I remembered being a small office. With as much stealth as possible given my shoes, I moved towards the light and, after a moment’s hesitation, pushed the door open an inch, asking, “Lucas?”
“No, he’s not…”
The speaker and I both froze simultaneously and stared at each other from across the dimly lit room. I didn’t need more light to know who it was. I had known the second I opened the door and was assaulted by the tart, bright flavor of limes. My eyes watered from the overpowering emotional response to the taste.
“Desmond. ”
“Secret?” He didn’t seem to believe it. He put down the book he’d been reading and stood by the far wall, licking his lips tentatively. I tasted sweet to him, like crème brulee or spun sugar, and he was probably checking for the sweetness. With that much flavor in the room, there was no way for him to pass my presence off as a flight of imagination.
He looked different somehow. His dark brown hair had grown out but was cut more evenly, so instead of being short in the back and longer in front, it was uniformly shaggy and had been left to hang in his face. His big violet-gray eyes held a hint of pain that tore at my insides and sobered me up better than a cold shower. It was the same way he’d looked at me when he thought I might be dead. He was wearing dark jeans cut to show off the muscular build of his lower body, and a crisp white dress shirt, rolled up to the elbows, paired with a skinny black tie, loosened enough he had undone his top shirt button. Under the lime, I could smell a musky cologne on him, and the combined package made me take a step closer.
