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I’m stunned she got so much accomplished so fast.
“I gave my statement hours ago,” she answers with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “You took an age getting here. Did you get lost or something? It’s on the news already.”
“Not all of us can whisper around like freaking smoke, nerd. Some of us have to drive. Some of us have to make sure we weren’t followed. Did any of the wounded make it?”
She nods somberly. “The dude with the gut shot died in surgery, but I’m not at all surprised. I’m amazed he lived as long as he did. The chick with the arm graze is stable, no arterial damage, but I think the docs are going to repair the nerve damage after the initial swelling goes down. The guy that passed out near the exit is going to be fine—he just has a concussion. The other two ladies died from blood loss—they were dead before they hit the floor.”
I incline my head, agonized at the massacre one little show caused. I can’t believe after all these years, after all the life I’ve sacrificed, I’m here running from that bitch again. One fucking art show. Shame climbs up my throat for every single human that was hurt or killed—the burn of guilty tears stinging my eyes and nose. I feel the heat of a body sliding close to me.
“Can we get inside now that you’re done with your little debriefing?” Rhys asks as he grabs my hand and drags me into the house. “I don’t want Ari out here, even if it is in the middle of nowhere.”
For a second, safety and warmth grip me. Then I remember why holding his hand is a bad thing. I shake off his fingers as if his flames would actually burn me. “I don’t like being touched, douchebag. Especially by you.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks at the scene I’m making, and I nearly shake my head. I’m blushing like some stupid virgin girl in a historical romance novel at the mere touch of the duke’s hand. For fuck’s sake, I think I hate myself.
Rhys looks back at me with an unreadable expression that slowly morphs into a little upturn of his lips. Now I’m looking at his lips. Son of a bitch. Can I be any more transparent?
I have got to get out of here.
Directing my attention to Evan and her brute of a companion, I examine him closely, taking in his wide stance, thick thighs, and sturdy motorcycle boots. His dark hair is pulled from his face into a man-bun, making his jade-green eyes pop. He would be considered beautiful, or at least I assume so, if I could see what lay beneath the mountain of a beard taking up residence on his face. His appearance screams “tough guy,” with the copious tattoos on his forearms and thick gauges in his ears, or at least it would if I weren’t covered in ink myself.
He has a hand on Evan’s shoulder as he steers her into the house. Then it dawns on me. This is the guardian that has been lurking in the shadows for the last several decades—since the ’20s, I think. Evan has never introduced him to me, but I’ve always known he was there, looking out for her, making sure she was safe. Where the hell he was today is anyone’s guess.
Facing him, I ask, “What’s your name?”
I know it already, but hearing him speak will tell me so much more.
“West,” he grunts at me, crossing his arms in such a way it discourages further questions.
“Do you have a last name, West?” I ask, arching a perturbed brow. “What do you do here? And more importantly, where the fuck were you today? ’Cause, I gotta say, your absence when she could have gotten killed is not sitting so well with me.”
“Don’t worry, Ari,” Evan assures me. “It’s not his fault. He’s simply doing what he’s told, aren’t you, West?” She says this in such an ominous manner, I’m a little scared for the poor guy.
Glancing past the menacing little wraith, I take in the interior of the safe house. An enormous stone fireplace dominates the great room, the open floor plan leaving the kitchen and a library nook in plain view. The walls are log planked, the décor decidedly rustic with chandeliers made from antlers, and buttery tan leather furniture adorned with plaid throw pillows.
There are two winding staircases on each side of the large opening to the kitchen. One staircase—that appears to be constructed solely of pine logs and branches—leads to the upper floors, and the other seems to lead down to the bottom level. Each of the rooms have large, unadorned picture windows looking out to the view below. The night is dark as pitch, but the moonlight reflects like a mirror on the lake at the base of the mountain.
Evan wraps an arm around my waist and steers me down the hall toward the stairs to the bottom level. Coming from the bottom of the staircase is the sound of male laughter and what I’m assuming is a game room if the sound of clacking billiards is any indication.
“Let’s go see Dad before we get you settled.”
“Aww! Do I have to? Your dad hates me,” I complain, dragging my feet, but the little powerhouse pulls me along as if I weigh nothing.
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just angry you won the last round of sparring.” She shoots me a censuring look over her shoulder. “Did you have to beat him so badly? He practically had to turn in his man card on that one.”
A sly smile slides across my face. Yes, I needed to kick his sorry ass for thinking a poor, weak woman couldn’t knock his ass into next Tuesday. He should have known better.
I hear two deep chuckles behind me and realize I said the last bit aloud.
Oops.
Glancing back, West—whose face seems to be made of granite and frowns—has cracked a smile. I guess old John isn’t everyone’s favorite person.
Evan’s father, John Black, is a hard man, but for better or worse, I respect him. I’d be stupid not to. And while his motives and mind games might be centuries in the making, he loves and protects my best friend.
“He’s the one who said no powers.” I shrug. “It’s not my fault I train every day.”
What I don’t say—because it can get me killed—is that I didn’t go full blast. I didn’t even break a sweat, handing the Wraith King his ass without a smidgen of effort. I figure he either rigged it so I would win—the purpose for which I’m not sure—or he’s letting me know he’s weak.
