Wild Hunger (The Phoenix Pack, #7)(44)

Trick kissed her forehead. “I know you do. But you have to stop being mad at yourself,” he said quietly, “because it’s pissing me off.”

“Excuse me?” She kept her voice low, so it didn’t carry to the others.

“You’re angry with yourself because you think you could solve the mystery so easily if you hadn’t buried the memories when you were a kid. But it’s not your fault, Frankie. You hear me? It’s not your fault. We’ll probably never have the answers. You need to learn to be okay with that or you’ll torment yourself, and then I’ll have to paddle your ass because no one hurts my mate—not even her.”

While part of her bristled at his words, Frankie found herself snorting in amusement. “Paddle my ass, huh?”

“Paddle your ass, yes. I’ll make no bones about it—do not test me on this.”

She frowned. “You can’t make bones at all.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech, and you know what I mean,” he said impatiently. He smoothed his hand down her back. “I’ll bet your ass would turn a very pretty shade of pink.” Trick was getting hard just thinking about it. “In fact, fuck the paddle. I’d use my hands. Yeah, seeing my handprints on your ass would be seriously fucking hot.”

“You don’t really have a paddle, do you?” His wicked smile was all the answer she needed. And it made her blush. She was about to declare, in no uncertain terms, that no paddle would get anywhere near her ass, but then his eyes cut to something over her shoulder. “What is it?” she asked.

“Why are the kids staring at you?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m thinking they like the smell of my fear.”

Chuckling, Trick tucked his face in the crook of her neck.

“It’s really not funny.” But he just laughed harder. Asshole.

Frankie rubbed her arms. She was inside her display room. It was cold. Dark. She heard sniffling. She turned. It was her sculpture of the girl in the chair, her head plopped forward. She was sniveling and—

The sound abruptly cut off. There was a deathly chill to the silence. And Frankie was suddenly very afraid. The girl’s head began to lift, the movement stiff and jerky. Oh sweet Jesus, no. The synthetic hair parted. The face . . . it was Frankie. A much younger Frankie. “He hurt her,” she whispered.

“Who?” Frankie asked, her voice cracking. “Who hurt her?”

The child’s head slowly turned. She stiffly lifted her hand. Pointed.

Turning her head just as slowly, Frankie looked. Gasped. There was a black, frothy blur bobbing in the air. There were no eyes, but it saw her. She felt its eyes on her.

The scent of rain, brine, and burned wood swirled around her as a grating voice said, “You’re supposed to be in bed, Frankie.”

Frankie’s eyes snapped open, and she sucked in a breath and gripped the coverlet. Her heart was pounding like a drum, slamming against her ribs. She sucked in another breath, feeling like she couldn’t get enough air.

A warm, calloused hand cupped her cheek. “Shh, baby, it was just a nightmare.” Trick gathered her close and kissed her hair. “Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head, burrowing into him, absorbing his warmth and inhaling his scent. She supposed it wasn’t surprising that she’d have a nightmare, given that her mind was full of dark questions to which she had no answers. Still, it had been damn disturbing. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Shit, her voice actually trembled.

“Shh,” he soothed, kissing her hair again. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

She snuggled closer and shut her eyes, but it was a long time before she fell back to sleep.





CHAPTER NINE



The knock at the front door snapped Frankie out of her zone. Dammit. Any other time, she’d have ignored it, but she was waiting on a delivery and needed the materials for her next project.

She put down her tools, lowered the music, and then pushed up her goggles as she made her way to the front door. As she swung it open, Frankie silently cursed.

“Hello, Francesca.”

She forced a smile for Geoffrey. He didn’t return it. His expression was grave, and there was a grim twist to his mouth. No prizes for guessing what had brought him here. Vance had obviously called him about Trick. Weasel.

Stepping aside, Frankie invited him in with a sweep of her arm. “Can I get you coffee?”

“Please.”

Frankie headed to the kitchen, knowing he’d follow. She pulled the goggles off her head and placed them on a stool. As she handled the coffee machine, she flicked him surreptitious glances. Her wolf watched him carefully, distrustful of this man who’d lied to Frankie.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been here.” He glanced out the window. “Your backyard is still in good shape. Do you spend much time out there?”

Crossing her arms, she leaned against the counter. “Some.”

“It occurs to me that I’m not quite sure how you spend your time these days. You used to enjoy surfing and diving.”

“I still do, when my time’s free.”

“What have you been doing with your free time lately?” he asked, and it was obvious what he was getting at. Oh, that was Geoffrey. He’d ask inane questions, lead the conversation exactly where he wanted it, and then pounce.