Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Declan
If we make it through the night.
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.
Emery sets her spoon down, the faint scrape ringing in the cavernous kitchen.
Her gaze weighs on me, searching for answers I’m not ready to give her yet.
The mark on her wrist burns like a beacon, pulling at the tethers inked into my skin.
But it’s more than that. I’ve been vibrating with the need to touch her, to put my hands on every inch of her since she got on the back of my bike.
I shouldn’t have brought her here but having her here feels so right. Like she’s meant to be with me.
But I know damn well she has no intention of staying in Crowsbridge Hollow and I can never leave.
I shouldn’t have admitted I’d done any research on her. It probably gave her the wrong idea.
Irritated with myself, I stand and snatch both bowls off the table, dump the milk in the sink, then scrub everything until there’s no other way to stall.
“Come on.” I jerk my head toward the hallway. “You need sleep.”
Without a word—which feels suspicious, based on the little I know of Emery—she follows me. With her at my back, my pulse pounds hard enough to rattle my ribs as it rushes south.
The hallway leads to a grand staircase. The maps and portraits so familiar, they’ve faded into the background for me. Emery pauses, studying one after another with her shrewd, curious eyes.
“Why the maps?” she asks.
I shrug. “Sterlings used to like to travel.”
“Used to?”
Before we pledged to protect the town. Before we stopped being free. “They’ve always been here,” I say instead. “I barely notice them now.”
She lingers in front of the family portrait of my parents, Lena, and me. Doesn’t ask any questions. Smart. She should be scared of the answers.
I’m better prepared now. I’ll keep Emery safe.
The staircase opens to a long corridor with heavy furniture but fewer family portraits. I flick on the lights and sconces along the walls flare to life, pushing some shadows back, while creating others.
I stop at the second door from the end of the hallway. “I’ll have you stay in here.”
She frowns at me as I turn the knob and push the door open. “Where are you staying?”
“I’ll be right there.” I point to the door at the end of the hallway. Next to her room.
I shove the door open before she asks another question. This has always been a guest bedroom. I can’t bear the thought of anyone staying in my sister’s old room across the hall.
No one’s slept in here since my aunt last visited, but it’s clean and furnished.
A four-poster bed made of iron, painted gold to match the heavy velvet curtains.
A wardrobe with clean linens. A chair, a desk, nightstands, lamps.
At the foot of the bed sits a massive iron-bound trunk, heavy enough it would take both of us to move it.
“There should be extra blankets in the trunk.” I nod toward it. “I’ll find something for you to sleep in.” The thought of her in one of my shirts and nothing else sends heat streaking down my spine. I clear my throat. “Bathroom’s across the hall.”
She steps past me and trails her fingers over the pointed arches of the bed’s footboard. “Looks more like a throne than a bed.”
“All of the furniture has…history.”
She lifts an eyebrow.
“It’s old,” I clarify.
“You’re sure I’m safe here?” she asks quietly.
Safe? The questions drills into my gut. I want to swear an oath to her that I’ll keep her safe no matter what. But the truth claws at my throat. She’s been marked by the Rider and he won’t stop until—
My tattoos crawl, restless under my skin, tugging toward her. I force the thought down and meet her gaze. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Her lips part. For several heartbeats neither of us move or say a word. “I trust you,” she finally says.
She shouldn’t.
She’d be safer in my bedroom. Safer in my bed, where I could keep her pressed against me all night long. The thought is poison and fire, spreading through me before I can kill it.
I force myself back a step, bracing myself against the doorframe. “Get some rest.”
“No one knows we’re here, right?” she asks.
“No. If anything happens or anyone arrives, I’ll hear it—”
“What’s going to happen?” she asks a bit sharper this time.
“And if you need anything, just knock.”
Emery’s full, pink lips part, like she’s crafting an argument. She studies me and doesn’t say a word. Heat flares in her eyes, sending a shot to my groin.
Knock it off. You need to protect her.
Emery deserves more than half-answers and cryptic warnings. But if I give her the truth right now, I’ll lose her before I figure out how to keep her alive.
Emery
The urge to chase after Declan and demand answers—or beg to stay in his room with him—tugs at me. I bite my lip to keep the words from spilling out. Once Declan leaves, the room’s too quiet. I pull out my phone and set it on the nightstand.
A soft knock sends me whirling. Declan pushes the door open without waiting for me to answer, a folded stack of clothes in his hands.
“Something for you to sleep in.”
I eye the pile as he sets it on the foot of the bed. It appears to be two T-shirts, a pair of gray sweatpants, and a rolled-up pair of black socks patterned with what looks like little green Sasquatch silhouettes.
“Are these Sasquatch socks?” I ask, unrolling them slowly for dramatic effect. Surely this grumpy man’s too serious to have something silly like Sasquatch socks in his drawer.
He ducks his head and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, gag gift from a friend. They’ll probably be too big on you, but I thought in case your feet get cold…”
He’s worried about my feet? He has to be the most considerate crazy person I’ve ever met. Crazy—right? All of this is nuts. Why did I willingly go along with it?
The faint burning around my wrist draws my attention. This is why. There has to be a logical explanation for it. There has to be.
I need to call Wren and at least let her know where I am. Just in case the hot, brooding tattoo artist turns out to be an ax-wielding maniac. At least she’ll know where to direct the police to look for my scattered body parts.
“Thanks.” I gesture toward the clothes. “How long are we staying here?”
“Just tonight,” he answers without hesitating. “I’ll figure out something.”
So, not a long-term solution to whatever’s happening.
He remains in the doorway, his gaze flicking from my face to my wrist, then to the clothes. His clothes. Heat roams over my skin.
“Are you planning to watch me change?” There’s no bite to my tone. It sounds more like I’m inviting him to stay.
“Goodnight, Emery.” He steps out and closes the door behind him.
The silence of the Sterling house presses in as I wander around the spacious room. The bed dominates the space, the intricately carved iron posts painted gold. I hope I don’t get a toe stuck in one of those narrow filigrees while I’m sleeping.
At the foot of the bed sits a massive trunk with iron bands etched in curling patterns. My fingers brush the cold metal, half expecting it to hum with the same energy that dances in my wrist.
The mirror above the dresser catches my eye. I walk closer and hold up my hand. The green ring still glows faintly, like a stubborn bruise. Arnica cream won’t make this go away.
My eyes burn and tension bands around my head. Yawning, I pull my sweater up over my head and unhook my bra. Sweet relief from freeing the girls from their satin prison flows over my skin.
What if there’s some pervy peephole behind that mirror and Declan’s watching me on the other side? Just because he’s hotter than sin doesn’t mean he can’t be a creep, right?
Too tired to care if Declan’s getting his jollies, I drop down on the edge of the bed, unlace my boots, then peel my pants down my legs and drape them over the end of the bed.
I reach for one of the T-shirts. A faded dark gray with the House of Ink & Iron logo spelled out on the front.
Staring at my tattoo-free skin, I let out a laugh.
I’m hardly the right person to advertise a tattoo shop.
But it’s clean and soft, so I slip it over my head.
It pools around my hips and when I stand, falls to my knees, swallowing me whole.
The clean, soapy scent mixed with something darker fills my nose.
Declan’s scent. Heat flares low in my belly and I press my thighs together to relieve the ache.
I move the other items to the top of the dresser and dig around my bag for my phone. A warning pops up, then another.
Low battery.
No service.
Fantastic.
I search my bag for my charger and find the cord. After a quick search, I can’t find a single outlet that will work with my cord in this museum.
Should I go next door and ask Declan for a charger? Does it matter, if I can’t get service out here? I walk over to the window and the bars in the top right corner of my phone flicker from one to two.
Quickly, I tap out a message to Wren.
With Declan Sterling. Researching town history. Service is crappy. Call you in the morning.
There. Enough to let her know who I’m with but not enough to make her worry and call the FBI to search for me.
Unless I don’t make it through the night.
Stop it.
…sending…
Finally, a check mark indicating the message was sent blinks. Then my phone powers down.
Damn. Hopefully she gets it and doesn’t freak out when I don’t respond to any follow-up texts she might send.
I pull the heavy covers back and crawl onto the high mattress.
The bed’s huge, chilly, and smells faintly musty but the sheets are soft.
I roll from one side to the other, trying to get comfortable, desperate to clear my mind.
With my phone dead, I can’t even listen to one of my bedtime meditations to ease myself into sleep.
Declan’s right next door.
Does he sleep naked? The question throbs through me, more insistent than the brand on my wrist.
Disgusted with myself, I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on my breathing. Eventually, I start to drift into the slow, easy waves leading to sleep.
A creak splinters the silence and my eyes snap open.
Is that the old house settling? Or is something breaking in?
I clutch the sheets tighter. If it’s something bad, surely Declan heard it too. Everything’s fine. Probably.