Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(13)

“Taken care of?”

He steps closer, reaching out to caress my face, but quickly withdraws his hand, frowning as if irritated with himself for doing it.

“You don’t have to talk to the police.” He pauses. “Unless you want to.”

I examine his face. “I take it they already know what happened.”

He tilts his head, a motion both affirmative and dismissive. I can’t concentrate enough at the moment to parse all the particulars of his relationship with local law enforcement, so I try to focus on my own problems.

Which, at the moment, are many.

“I’ve got to call my boss, let him know I’m going to miss my shift.”

“He knows you’re going to need some time off. It’s not a problem.”

I blink rapidly several times, as if it might help me understand what’s happening. “You talked to Buddy?”

The head tilt again. Casual, like he’s got everyone in the city on speed dial and whatever he wants of them, the answer is always yes.

“Who are you?”

His eyes soften. He wrestles with himself in silence for a long time, until finally he says, “Apparently, your wolf.”

My wolf. My deadly protector, dark knight in Armani armor ripping to shreds those who dare to harm me.

I wonder what the Grimm brothers would have to say about him. He’s way more interesting than that grandma-gobbler they created for Little Red.

A wave of fatigue passes through me, settling like a ten-pound weight on my chest. I close my eyes and yawn, fighting it. I don’t want to fall asleep yet. I want him to talk to me, to answer all my questions and look at me with those searching dark eyes and smile at me again, even though he doesn’t want to.

Don’t leave, wolfie. Watch over me while I sleep.

I didn’t realize I’d said that aloud until he murmurs, “I’m not leaving.”

Feather light, his lips brush my forehead. Or is that my imagination?

I don’t have time to decide before sleep pulls me close into its arms and I surrender.





6





Tru





I dream I’m running through a dense forest at night. Moonlight streams down through the boughs of tall trees, dappling the forest floor ghostly white between patches of dark undergrowth. Massive roots twist through piles of fallen leaves that I kick up as I run, my hair flying out behind me, my heart pumping hard in my chest.

Howls come from all around, rising up to the canopy in eerie echoes through the cold evening air.

All is silent except the howls, the sound of my labored breath, the thud of my feet pounding against the earth, and the dry crunch of dead leaves. I’m naked but unashamed, my body more comfortable than if constrained by clothing, my mind as free as the wind.

I’m trying to catch up with the big, dark animal loping through the trees far ahead of me.

It turns its head, looking back with eyes that flash quicksilver through the shadows. It bares sharp white teeth in a wolfish grin, then lowers its big muzzle near to the ground and lunges forward, sprinting away, leaving me calling out in frustration as it disappears into the darkness.

I awaken with a gasp and jerk up in bed, wincing at the pain that shoots through my body from the movement.

“Bad dreams?”

Liam sits calmly in the chair beside my bed with a book in his hands, one leg crossed over the other, so handsome he can’t be real.

I swallow, wanting my heart to stop being a jackhammer. “No. In fact, I was dreaming of you.”

He gazes at me steadily. Very softly, he says, “A nightmare, then.”

It’s evening now: beyond the window, all the world is dark. The lights in the room have been dimmed, too, and the noisy buzz of the daytime hospital has turned to a hush.

Either Liam left while I was asleep or someone brought him new clothing, because the telltale red dot on his shirt collar is gone.

“Do you always wear a suit and tie?”

His lips quirk. I think he enjoys my random changes in conversation. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“I’m only asking because your crime fighting would probably be a lot more comfortable if you invested in a pair of sweats.”

He snaps shut the book and gives me a stern look. “Do I seem like the sort of man who would wear sweats?”

The answer is so obvious, I don’t even bother with it. “But what about the tie? Doesn’t that get annoying?”

“No.”

“What about at home? You can’t sleep in that suit. What do you wear to bed?”

Holding my gaze, he says, “Nothing.”

Holy shit. Inside my body, muscles I didn’t even realize I own have clenched.

He sets the book on the nightstand and folds his hands in his lap, resigned to the fact that I’m going to start grilling him about his wardrobe. But I don’t want to be predictable, so I change the subject instead.

“What were you reading?”

“Proust.”

I think for a minute. “I know that’s a person, but that’s about it.”

He silently hands me the book. The cover is worn. Inside, the pages are yellowed, and many of them are dog-eared. I lift it to my nose and sniff, flipping through the pages to get that good book smell. Then I turn to the front and look at the title page.