Torn (A Wicked Saga, #2)(31)

Ren was stopping at the Walmart about ten minutes down the road to pick up a new lock. It was going to be a long night, and even with the lock changed, how safe was it to be here now?

“We never had to worry about the fae searching us out before,” I said. “This . . . I don’t even know what to think of this.”

Tink said nothing, because what could be said?

Ren and I were going to have to talk to David about what had happened. There was no way around that. This was too important, too dangerous.

I thought about the prince and how the knight had behaved. My fingers trembled around the broom, so I propped it against the couch. “I saw the prince earlier.”

“What?” Tink’s response was sharp and high.

I repeated myself. “I saw him when I left here. I went to get beignets and he walked up behind me.”

“And you just now say something?” Tink vaulted over the couch. Like, jumped up and cleared the back and landed, standing on the center cushion.

I gaped at him. “How in the world did your towel stay on for that when I can’t even get one to stay wrapped around me when I get out of the shower?”

“Magic,” he replied. “Seriously. What the hell, Ivy? What happened?”

“If you get off the couch, I’ll tell you.”

Tink pouted, but stepped off the couch. He sat down, folding his hands in his lap all proper like. “Waiting.”

I sat down on the edge of the coffee table—not the same part his man-parts had been all up on. I told him everything, finishing with the part about the prince just walking off, ambling down the street. “He didn’t try to take me or anything. He—”

“He was wooing you. Like I said.” Tink reached across the space and tapped the tip of my nose. And that was just weird as all hell now. I drew back, shooting him a look of warning. He ignored it. “Or he could just be trying to understand you so he can figure out what his next step is.”

“I think we know what his next step is,” I said, folding my arms loosely in my lap. “The prince knows about Ren, and the knight had no intention of fighting me. He kept pushing me out of the way. Didn’t even bruise me. He was, like Ren said, completely focused on him. I think he was here . . .” Biting down on my lip, I couldn’t finish that thought.

Understanding flared in Tink’s gaze. “The knight was sent here to kill Ren. To take out the competition.”





Chapter Eleven


As expected, the night was long. Ren was quiet as he set about replacing the lock, and I didn’t ask him what he’d done with the knight’s body. I was just grateful that his truck was here and he hadn’t had to attempt hauling a body around in the back of a Ducati. It was near four in the morning when we retired to the bedroom, locking the door behind us.

And we really didn’t talk then either other than me asking if he was okay and vice versa. Then he circled an arm around my waist, tugged me to his chest, and shoved his leg between mine.

It was hard to fall asleep knowing that a knight had found me—found us—but the weariness that had settled into both our bodies allowed sleep to drag us under. We slept with an iron dagger under our pillows, and it wasn’t until late Monday morning that Ren and I untangled ourselves from one another and hit the shower. Sadly, the shower thing was separate. We both had gotten texts from David. There was a meeting this afternoon.

When I shuffled out to the bedroom while Ren was doing his thing, I saw that the fae blood had been cleaned from the floors, and then I was dealt a surprise when I entered the kitchen.

Tink had returned to, well, the Tink size I was used to, wings and all. He was sitting on the counter, eating the cereal he’d dumped next to him while watching an episode of Supernatural on my laptop.

“You know what I was thinking?” he said as I went to the cabinet and grabbed the coffee. “I never thought I could pick between Sam, Dean, Castiel, or Crowley, but I think I can.”

“Uh-huh?” I murmured, dumping about ten scoops of coffee into the maker.

“Yeah. I would have to go with Crowley.”

I closed the lid and blinked. That was unexpected. Turning the coffee pot on, I turned around and leaned against the counter. “You picked the king of hell?”

He nodded his little chin, and seeing him this small again wasn’t as weird as I thought it would be. “I have my reasons. One of them is that he has a great English accent.”

I raised a brow as I turned to grab a mug, loading it with coffee and sugar.

“And I like his boy crush on Dean,” Tink continued. “Who wouldn’t have a crush on Dean? If you didn’t, I couldn’t believe that you were real.”

“Uh-huh,” I repeated, taking a sip. I was not nearly awake enough to process this conversation.

Tink pointed at the screen. “Just look at those baby blue eyes. That grin of his is what heaven looks like.”

I left the conversation at that point, switching places with Ren. I hoped he didn’t kill Tink while I showered and got ready. I was pleased to see that I had to use less concealer around my eye and jaw today.

When I came out of the bathroom, I found Ren sitting on my bed, suited up for work, my coffee cup dangling from his fingertips—my obviously empty coffee cup.

His grin was sheepish. “Sorry. I went out to the kitchen, lasted about five seconds and then came back in here. Saw your coffee. It was too sweet to pass up.”