Torn (A Wicked Saga, #2)(88)

“I need to know—need to understand what happened while I was at . . . at that place,” I explained. “How did you guys end up here? How did they get Ren to trust them? Are Brighton and Merle—”

“I’ll tell you everything, but maybe you should shower first? And then you should maybe get off your feet,” he offered. “Okay? Glad you agree.”

I stared at him, having the distinct feeling there was something he was avoiding. Probably a lot of things.

“I’ll get you some clothes. I brought some here, because I knew we’d find you. I just have to get them. There’s a robe on the door. It’s not yours, but it’s nicer. Doesn’t have holes in it.” He stopped at the door. “Oh, and I’ll grab you a key.”

I halted, my breath catching. “Does the door lock?”

Tink cocked his head to the side. “You can lock it. When you’re in here or when you leave, but you don’t have to.”

Swallowing hard, I said, “Oh, okay.”

He stared at me a moment, and with a rare show of seriousness, he said, “You’re not being kept captive here, Ivy.”

I closed my eyes, breathing through my nose. Then I nodded and made myself go into the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I walked over to the small shower stall and turned the water on. My thoughts raced a million miles a minute as I stripped off the ruined gown and stepped under the hot water. I focused on the stings and aches as I showered, getting all the dirt and blood off me. Then I turned off the water, dried off, and found the robe. Tink was right. This fluffy gray robe was much nicer than mine.

I didn’t look at myself in the large mirror as I left the bathroom.

Tink wasn’t back yet. I went to the bed and sat down. There was a mountain of pillows at the head of the bed. I looked around as I slid my hands along the robe. This room was nothing like the one at Drake’s, but my stomach churned.

“I’m not there,” I whispered.

I kept repeating that over and over as I scooted back against the pillows. Yes, I was in another house full of fae, and in another bedroom, but this wasn’t the same. It was nothing at all like that, and I—

There was a knock on the door and then it cracked open. Tink came in, carrying one of the weekender bags I rarely used. He walked it over to the dresser and placed it on top. He also had what looked like iron daggers and stakes in his hands, but I wasn’t paying attention to either of those things.

Tink had on some kind of sling, like the kind mothers carry their newborn babies around in. What in the world . . .

“I brought you some weapons, but don’t let the other fae see them.” He arranged them on the dresser like I had them at home, and I thought I saw the sling wiggle. “Iron kind of wigs them out.”

“Understandable,” I murmured, squinting. “Tink—”

“I grabbed some of your jeans and sweaters, and yeah, I kind of had to grab the unmentionables, so I sort of rifled through your underwear”—something made a sound from the sling, a tiny, tinny sound—“and honey child boo-boo, you should buy some thongs, because really, the boy shorts are so yesteryear.”

My lips pursed. “Um, Tink, what’s up with the sling?”

“Oh, this?” He smiled nervously as he ran his hand through his hair. White-blond strands stood straight up. “Well, do you remember before you got all kidnapped by the prince of the Otherworld? I left a message about it, but you probably don’t remember.”

Left a message?

“I’m not even sure you got the message.” He crept toward the bed, and I heard the sound again. Something small in the sling squirmed, and Tink stopped beside me. “I didn’t get it from Amazon. Well, I got this sling from Amazon, but not Dixon.” He reached inside the sling and took out this tiny little ball of gray fur. Holding it up, he said, “Dixon, meet Ivy.”

It meowed pitifully.

My mouth dropped open.

Tink held a kitten—an extraordinarily adorable kitten. A kitten that I had told him not to get, but he had it and he was carrying it around in a sling. Tink sat down and placed the little fur ball on the bed.

It meowed again, prancing up the bed, then clawed its way up my robe-covered leg, continuing until it was in my lap. The kitten was all gray except for the tip of its tail, which looked like it had been dipped in white paint.

“I needed a pet,” he reasoned. “And I haven’t accidentally killed it yet, so win.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, picking it up and lifting it so it was eye-level with me. It gave another admittedly cute meow, and I was lost in the kitten’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Are you mad, Ivy? I know you said no, but well, I don’t have a real excuse. I kind of just did what I wanted.”

I brought the kitten close to my face, smiling when it stretched out a tiny leg and planted its paw on my nose. “I’m not mad. Honestly.” I sat the kitten down on the bed and it waddled off to investigate Tink’s fingers. “Dixon? Named after a certain Walking Dead character?”

“Of course.” Tink jerked his thumbs at his shirt. “Proud Daryl lover over here.”I laughed, and it sounded strange and hoarse to my own ears. I couldn’t remember the last time I genuinely laughed. I took a shaky breath. “What happened?”

Tink wiggled his fingers for the kitten. “Maybe you should tell Tink what happened to you.”