Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(23)

When I turn back to look at Malek, he’s gone. The curtains in front of the closed French doors billow slightly, then settle back into tranquility and hang still.

I sit watching them, stunned.

He’s a ghost. Or a vampire. Or an alien who can walk through solid objects.

Or a figment of my overactive imagination, which would make way more sense.

With an edge in his voice that suggests he might force his way in if I don’t comply, Spider says, “Open up, lass.”

I take a moment to compose myself, then throw off the covers and pad barefoot over the carpet to the door. I unlock it, open it, and lean my shoulder on the edge, squinting against the bright hallway light.

Tense and suspicious, he peers past me into the dark room. “Who were you talking to?”

Instead of answering that, I deflect. “Why were you listening at my door? Are you spying on me?”

The tactic works. His cheeks turn ruddy, and he glances away. Sounding flustered, he says, “No, lass. I just…uh…wanted to check on you. Make sure you were safe.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Has something happened?”

He glances back at me and shakes his head, but I sense a hesitation.

“Spit it out. What’s up?”

He passes a hand over his hair, looks at the floor, runs a finger under his shirt collar. “What happened earlier.”

When I tried to tell Sloane about seeing Malek in the ladies room at the restaurant, he means. When she humiliated me in front of everyone by calling me a liar.

Heat rising up my neck, I say stiffly, “I don’t want to talk about it, thanks.”

He peers at me with an odd expression. His voice comes out muted. “You said ‘he.’”

“Excuse me?”

“When you opened the door to the ladies room and asked me if I saw someone come out. You first referred to that person as ‘he.’ And you seemed disoriented.”

My heart picks up its pace. “What’s your point?”

He stares at me, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “Was there a man in the bathroom with you, lass?”

“Would you believe me if I said there was?”

He considers that for a silent beat, then nods.

I don’t know why, but it makes me want to cry. My chest tight, I look away, blinking. “Thank you. But it doesn’t really matter now.”

Spider says softly, “Aye, lass. It does.” After a moment, he prompts, “Look at me.”

“I can’t. I’m too busy trying to pretend I’m not upset so you won’t think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. But I do think you’re proud enough not to trust me from now on because I had to tell your sister the truth about what I saw.”

“No, I understand. You were just doing your job.”

He seems dissatisfied by that, shifting his weight from foot to foot and passing a hand over his hair again. He exhales and squeezes the back of his neck. Then he shakes his head, as if he’s made some kind of decision.

After a rough throat clearing, he says, “I’ll let you get back to bed. Sorry for the disturbance.”

Then he turns and stalks off down the hallway, muttering to himself in Gaelic.

I go back to bed and lie awake for a long time. I finally fall into a fitful, dreamless sleep, waking every so often to the scent of cedar sap and pine needles, of fog clinging to ancient tree trunks in a dark, moonlit woods.

When I get up in the morning, a single long-stemmed white rose rests on the pillow beside my head.





12





Riley





For the next two days, nothing happens. I have no mysterious midnight visitors, no more formerly dead, headless Mob bosses are discovered alive and intact after a warehouse fire, and nobody gifts me an envelope full of Benjamins in a restroom to try to get me to abandon the hoe life and make a fresh start.

I stay locked in my bedroom trying to work and trying not to think about Malek.

I succeed at the first thing far better than the second.

On day three, I ask Spider if he’ll drive me into town so I can work at a coffee shop. I can’t take a single minute more of swimming around in the huge, empty fishbowl of the guest bedroom, gulping air and longing for another heady sniff of pine needles.

Spider’s immediate response is a flat, “No.”

He caught me in the kitchen, where I’ve taken to sneaking at odd hours to pilfer food from the fridge in hopes I won’t have to encounter any of the staff and endure their withering derision.

In my head, I’ve created an entire ten-season Netflix saga of what all the Irish bodyguards have been saying about me behind my back since Sloane and Declan left.

It’s ugly. Even if only two percent of it is true, I can’t face them ever again.

I’m not anxious by nature, but I am easily mortified. Even a minor mistake makes me want to die of shame if it’s committed in public.

“Please?” I say, trying to appear winsome and irresistible. “I have to get out of this place. It’s too quiet. I’m going nuts. I need some noise and chattering people around me so I can concentrate.”

Spider gazes at me sternly. “Orders are, you stay here, lass.”

“Orders. Right.” I pause to purse my lips and examine his steely exterior for cracks.