Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(87)

On the drive from the airport down the rutted dirt road, I gather my courage and ask Mal about Spider. I’m hoping since we’re not in bed, he won’t get so mad.

I’m wrong.

As soon as I mention his name, he goes stiff.

“He’s alive.”

“Is he going to stay that way?”

“Not if you keep asking me about him.”

“I’m only asking because you haven’t told me anything. The last I heard, you’d drugged him and told him to leave the country, but he hadn’t.”

He’s silent for a long time. I’m not sure he’ll ever answer me, but then he does, his jaw tight, looking straight out the windshield as he drives.

“He’s still in Moscow. Sniffing around like a dog.”

“What are you planning on doing about him?”

“Nothing.”

I examine his profile, but can’t get a clue to what he’s thinking. It’s like looking at a brick wall.

If the brick wall wanted to smash something, that is.

“I’m sorry that this conversation is pissing you off, but I have to know that he’s going to be okay.”

With slow, precise enunciation, he replies, “Why is that so important to you?”

“Mal, look at me.”

He clenches his jaw instead.

“Come on. Just for a sec.”

He draws an exaggerated breath, exhales, then glances in my direction.

As soon as our eyes meet, I say softly, “I don’t have feelings for him. I never did. I promise you. But I liked him, and he was really nice to me. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. Okay?”

He holds my gaze for a moment longer then looks back out the windshield.

We drive for a while in silence. I let him work it over in his head without pestering him, and am finally rewarded when he says grudgingly, “I’ve already put the word out that he’s off-limits. No one’s to touch him. If anything bad happens him, it won’t be our doing.”

Relieved, I scoot across the seat and duck under his arm. Cuddling up to him, I kiss his cheek and whisper, “Thank you, sweetie.”

He says vehemently, “I hate that Irish fucker.”

“I know.”

“So should you. He shot you!”

“It was an accident. I’m sure he feels awful.”

My reply is a disgruntled growl. I kiss his cheek again, and he squeezes me closer into his side.

I decide to leave my questions about Declan’s future for later. In my heart of hearts, I already know the answers, anyway.

If Mal were going to kill Declan, he already would have.

We arrive at the cabin just as Poe is landing on the wood railing on the porch, squawking at us impatiently for treats.





The next few weeks are a blissful dream.

The snow starts to melt in the meadow. A riot of wildflowers springs up from the thawing ground. I perfect my target shooting skills and learn how to shoot a bow and arrow, though only at trees. I even start work on a book, a project I always dreamed of but never had time for.

When Mal asks me what the story is, I tell him it’s about a girl who doesn’t know she’s dead.

“Like that movie,” he says. “I see dead people.”

I smile at him. “No, this is a love story.”

“A love story with ghosts?”

“Keep making that face, and I’ll never let you read it.”

He chuckles, kisses me, and leaves it at that.

We go to bed early and sleep late, sometimes staying in bed all day. We make love on every surface in the cabin, including up against all the walls. I’ve never been happier.

I promise myself that when Mal has to go back to work, I’ll call my sister. I’ll deal with “real” life, but not yet.

For the first time, I’m happy, whole, and completely at peace. I feel like I was wandering lost in a wilderness, but now I’ve been found. I want to live in the cabin in the woods forever.

Until the day Mal goes into town to restock supplies and everything falls to pieces.

I should’ve known something so beautiful was too good to last.





41





Mal





I spot him the instant I step into the grocer, because nobody from here looks like that.

Nobody from anywhere looks like that.

Leaning against the wall by the restrooms near the back, his arms folded over his sizeable chest and a toothpick stuck between his movie star teeth, he’s the picture of effortless cool.

He’s tall, muscular, and has full sleeves of tats down both arms. His dark hair waves down to his shoulders. He’s got the angular jaw of a superhero and the proud bearing of a bullfighter.

In a tight white short-sleeved T-shirt, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and mirrored aviators, he looks like the love child of James Bond and Elvis Presley, with a dash of the pirate Blackbeard sprinkled on top.

I hate him on sight.

I also know instinctively that he’s not here by accident.

He’s here for me.

The odd thing is, he’s not trying to hide it. He wants me to see him, that’s obvious. Judging by the way he’s lounging against the wall, arrogant as the devil, he wants everyone to see him.