Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(63)

But he keeps it under lock and chains and throws away the key.

He doesn’t get into bed with me again.

He doesn’t say the F word again.

He especially doesn’t kiss me.

With the exception of the bath ritual, he treats me like I’m his patient. He takes a keen interest in how I’m healing, asking me every day about my pain level and making sure I’m eating enough and taking my meds, but other than that, he’s distant.

Clinical.

Cold.

I think a lot about how he said he was responsible for me since I took a bullet for him. I think about how hard he tries to keep an emotional wall between us, how he only reveals himself in a language I can’t understand.

Most of all, I think about the battle he so obviously wages with himself every time he looks at me.

He can’t reconcile what Declan did to his brother to what I did for him.

He doesn’t understand how someone he thinks should be his enemy can call him a friend.

And he’s incredibly conflicted about his desire.

He wants me, but he doesn’t want to. It’s obvious in a thousand different ways.

And slowly I begin to understand that when he answered “as long as it takes” when I asked how long he would keep me here, he meant as long as it would take for him to work it all out in his head.

I think the biggest monkey wrench in his progress is my continued refusal to beg him to let me go.

Refusal isn’t the right word.

It’s more like disinterest.

To my profound surprise, I’ve discovered that I like it here.

I like the clean air and the quiet. I like seeing a million stars at night. I like the simple rituals of meals, baths, and bedtime, of Poe knocking on the window with his beak every few days for treats.

I don’t even mind it when Mal has to leave me for hours or sometimes days to go into the city, because I’ve discovered that I like to walk alone in the woods with the sun on my face, the cold air biting my cheeks, and the satisfying crunch of frozen pine needles underfoot to keep me company.

I like the cabin that he and his dead brother built with their hands.

Most of all, I like the time I have to think.

I never did much of it before, not really. I studied and worked and spent any free time in front of a screen, distracting myself. Deadening my feelings.

Some people eat when they’re depressed. Some people drink, or do drugs, or have sex with strangers. The way I dealt with emotional pain was by feeding myself a steady diet of social media and video games and pretending it wasn’t there.

It seems so obvious now.

I was lonely.

In a city of nearly a million people, I always felt alone.

But here, in the middle of nowhere with only a crow and a killer for company, I don’t feel alone.

I feel safe.

I feel content.

I feel, some days, like that bullet was the best thing to ever happen to me.





“I’ll be gone overnight.”

I look up from my scrambled eggs. Mal sits across the table from me, looking at his plate, pushing food around on it with his fork.

“Overnight?”

He nods. “I’m leaving right after breakfast.”

“Okay.”

He glances up at me. In the morning light, he’s breathtaking. His pale eyes are the color of fine jade.

“How’s your pain?”

I smile. He asks me the same thing every morning. “Pretty much gone, unless I try to lift something.”

His dark brows draw together into a frown. “Why would you try to lift something? You should ask me.”

That makes me smile wider. “It’s good for me to push myself.”

His frown deepens to a scowl. “No, it’s not. You could get hurt.”

I hold his gaze for a beat, then say softly, “Bending over to pick something up isn’t nearly as dangerous as what you do.”

“I’m a professional. You’re injured. They’re two completely different things.”

His tone is tight. I inspect his face for a moment. It’s tight, too, as are his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Since when do you lie to me?”

He snaps, “Since I’m your kidnapper.”

He’s in a foul mood, but I don’t know what set him off. I put my fork down, lean back in my chair, and take him in.

“Stop staring at me.” He shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Why are you upset, Mal?”

“I’m not.”

He chews angrily. I can practically hear him crushing his molars together.

“Okay. Except you are. Did I do something?”

He swallows, looking at me with blazing eyes and a set jaw. “Why haven’t you asked me to take you home?”

This again. As if I have a logical answer. “Would you if I did?”

That seems to make him even angrier. “That wasn’t my question.”

“I know. It was mine.”

He stares at me, breathing audibly. Looking as if he’s only controlling himself through a great deal of willpower, he says, “Spider is still in Moscow.”

Startled by the news, I remain silent.

“I saw him. I drugged him. I threatened to kill him if he didn’t leave. He stayed anyway. Do you know what that means?”