Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(16)

The clock on the wall at the nurses’ station tells me it’s a quarter past midnight. The slack-jawed stare the middle-aged nurse gives Liam as we pass by tells me her panties have just gone up in smoke.

I say to him, “Don’t we need to let them know I’m leaving? Check me out or something?”

“No.”

Of course not. He doesn’t ask permission for anything.

“But what about my pain meds?”

“I already got them.”

I look at his empty hands and flat pockets. His suit is cut so perfectly and fits so well it would show the outline of a paperclip, but no bulges mar his sleek outline.

Except the one between his legs, which I’m not looking at.

“I hesitate to ask where you’ve stashed the bottle.”

He slants me a look that I think is meant to convey amusement, but is smoldering instead.

The man can’t help it. His default setting is raging inferno. Even when he tries to be circumspect, heat rolls off him in waves.

We’re silent as we ride the elevator down to the first floor, silent as we walk to the entrance, silent as he helps me into the back of the black Escalade waiting for us at the curb.

It isn’t until we’re pulling away from the hospital entrance that he speaks, and then it’s to his driver…in a foreign language.

The driver—a good-looking thirtyish guy with linebacker’s shoulders, black hair, and eyes as sharp and freezing blue as icicles—glances at me in the rearview mirror before murmuring an answer in the same language.

Either he’s suffering from a serious case of resting bitch face, or he doesn’t like me. His energy is as cold as his eyes.

When he turns his gaze back to the road, I feel like a rabbit that’s been released from a trap.

I turn my attention to the foggy night beyond the windows. “Was that Gaelic?”

“Aye,” comes Liam’s low response. “But we just call it Irish.” The following pause feels weighted. “You know it?”

“No. But my granddad was Irish. My dad’s dad. He was from Dublin. He lived to be a hundred and four. He used to sing me lullabies when I was a baby.”

I turn from the window just in time to see Liam and the driver exchanging a look in the rearview mirror.

That’s the end of the conversation. Liam grows more and more tense as we approach my apartment, tense and restless, occasionally flexing his hands open then clenching them to fists.

I want to ask him what that’s about, but don’t. I want to ask him how he knows my address, but don’t. I want to ask him a lot of other things, too, but don’t bother with those, either. If this is the end of our non-relationship, those details don’t matter. I’m too exhausted to deal with the mysteries of the universe right now, anyway.

I’ll just file everything under the general heading Secrets Wolves Keep, and pack it all away.

The moment we pull to a stop in front of my apartment building, Liam leaps out of the car and heads around to my side.

As soon as the door slams behind him, the driver speaks, his Irish accent thick. “You take care now. Boston’s a dangerous city. Wouldn’t want to see a nice girl like you get hurt again.”

His icy gaze drills into mine.

That was a threat. He’s telling me to stay away from Liam.

What a dick.

I meet his cold stare in the rearview mirror, smile, and say with all the Texas charm I can muster, “Why, bless your heart, Mr. Driver. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m only helpless when my nail polish is wet, and even then I can still pull a trigger.”

Our gazes hold until Liam opens my door. Then the driver looks away, shaking his head.

I think I see a hint of a smile on his face, but I could be mistaken.

I climb out of the car, square my shoulders, and look up into Liam’s face. It’s a long way up: he’s standing on the curb and I’m in the street, and he’s a head taller than me normally.

“So. I guess this is goodbye. Thank you for saving my life. I’d repay you if I knew how, or if I thought you’d let me, but I don’t, and you won’t, so my appreciation will have to do. Thank you again. I hope you have a nice life.”

I stick out my hand, perversely satisfied to throw the same line back at him that he used on me when he tried to say goodbye in the diner.

He looks at my outstretched hand. He mutters something in Gaelic under his breath. He takes my hand and pulls me gently up onto the sidewalk.

Then he bends over and picks me up.

When he turns around and starts heading toward the front door of my building, carrying me in his arms like a child, I say, “Wait, I’m confused. What’s happening now?”

He growls, “I’m putting you and that smart mouth of yours to bed is what’s happening.”

With that, he seals my smart mouth shut and injects electricity straight into my bloodstream.





7





Tru





My apartment is on the third floor. Liam doesn’t carry me all the way there, though I’ve no doubt he’s strong enough to if he wanted. Instead, he sets me down gently in front of the elevator doors in the lobby and stabs his finger against the call button.

We don’t look at each other while we wait for the elevator to arrive, but I’m hyper aware of him standing beside me. He’s heat and muscle and danger, a razorblade sheathed in silk. Then there’s another silent elevator ride.