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“Black Mountain,” he surmised, naming the location he’d unceremoniously tried to have her shipped off to.
“Yes,” she said. “You can’t ship me away. Not now.”
“Deal.” His voice was softer, barely a whisper. “But, for three days,youtrust me. No questions asked.”
Haven’t I already been doing that?Before she could voice the thought out loud, he was asleep—she knew without having to turn around. His breathing changed, tickling the back of her throat in a slow, steady rhythm. Something told her that it was the first time he’d drifted off in days.
If only it could be so easy for her.
3
She was running. Panting. Falling. With every stumble, he was gaining. Soon, there would be no escape.
He’d silence her forever…
Loren’s eyes flew open. As harsh daylight stabbed at her vision, she groaned, more exhausted than when she first laid down. Blindly, she reached for another pillow—only, she feltheatinstead of fabric. Panicked, she lurched upright, gaping at the figure lying beside her.
He looked tense even while asleep. There were some hints of softness, though. His jaw was more relaxed, and, for once, those black curls freely fell over his forehead, rather than be ruthlessly slicked back. That alone transformed him.
He looked so much younger, not that he seemed very old in the first place. Older thanher, definitely—mid-twenties, maybe? Thirty at most. It was so hard to tell when he rarely deviated from a frown. In fact, Loren wondered—if she reached out right now and touched him—would he feel like stone, hard and cold to the touch?
Fingers shaking, she did. The pad of her thumb brushed the corner of his jaw, so gently that it barely counted as “touching” at all. Even so, she sucked in a breath. He was…soft. His skin had a gentle amount of give to it. Like silk.
In response, he made a wordless sound and turned, rolling onto his side—but his arm flew out, catching her across the waist. Loren froze. Her heart pounded as she waited for him to wake up, but he never did. If anything, he just shifted closer, burying his face into the pillow.
The touch reminded her of a little kid reaching out to snuggle a toy bear. But something told her that—though maybe not for a while—he was used to sharing this bed with something other than a toy. A woman—Emma.
Someone he didn’t have to be guilted into sleeping beside.
At the sobering thought, she shifted, gingerly easing herself out of reach. Her feet hit the cold floor with a shudder, and she took off, tiptoeing into the hallway.
Downstairs was silent. Micha was gone, most likely out patrolling. Fortunately, she found plenty with which to distract herself—a pile of dirty clothes waited by the door, and someone had tracked mud across the foyer.
With a sigh of relief, Loren went searching for a mop. While living in Fred Connors’ house, she’d fallen into the same defensive routine. As long as she cooked and cleaned, she didn’t have to think, or listen to the little voice at the back of her head screaming at her to run.
Lost in the rhythm, she moped the entire first floor. The clothes, she tossed into an empty hamper she found inside what seemed to be a small laundry room near the back of the house. Afterward, she drifted into the kitchen, desperate for a new distraction.
On impulse, she snatched the carton of eggs from the fridge. Just as she started to crack one, a knock rattled the front door. Several more followed, increasingly incessant.Tap, tap!
She froze. Was it Micha? Or someone else…coming back to finish what they’d started two nights ago? But why come knocking on the front door?
Besides, a quick glance out the window didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary. Naomi’s pink car was still in the driveway, stuck in the same spot it had been since the night of the storm. There were no hordes of murderous men, or wolves, prowling hungrily on the front lawn.
And if they had come…Micha was still out there. Wouldn’t he have warned them?
Heart pounding, Loren turned away from the sink and moved cautiously for the door. She opened it mid-rap, and came face to face with someone who, in another life,couldhave been Naomi Tanner.
She was pale, her face devoid of expensive makeup. Her highlighted blond hair was pulled back into a bun, and a gray tracksuit and mud-stained sneakers replaced her designer clothing and heels. If Loren had to guess, the girl had walked all the way here from New Walsh.
“Is…hehere?” she asked, in a voice that wasn’t laced with bitchy undertones.
Loren blinked. “W-who?”
Naomi fidgeted with the collar of her jacket while eyeing the floor. “Him.”
“He’s sleeping,” Loren blurted. But that was beside the point. She knew damn well that Naomi wasn’t here bearing gifts of good fortune.
There was a scratch on her left cheek, opposite the scabbed-over marks Loren’s nails had left. Beneath her tracksuit jacket, she wore a gray top with a high turtleneck to cover her throat.
