Chapter Twenty-eight
FRANKIE
Trevor leads us to a large mansion that has seen better days.
Geoffrey’s occupation has tarnished the atmosphere, leaving behind the lingering stench of evil and despair.
Room after room is trashed, the building barely habitable.
The man sucked the life out of the mansion, the same as he did to so many people.
Much to my disappointment, Isobel remained behind in the city square, working to put her coven back together and dealing with the fallout of battle.
I don’t envy her the job. In her position, I would burn the place to the ground and start fresh somewhere else—somewhere without the horror and skeletons that saturate the very ground.
Before we leave, I want to talk to the witch.
She seemed to know a little too much about me and what I can do. If there is any chance that she has information regarding kismets, I need to know.
It could be the difference between life and death.
Trevor guides me toward a relatively clean bathroom before leaving to help the guys scavenge for clothing and supplies. I practically skip into the room, accidentally slamming the door in Garth’s face, so used to his presence that I forgot he was trotting behind me.
He shoots me a reproachful look, and I huff in amused exasperation. “You are not going to watch me shower.”
In response, he plops his giant ass in the doorway, and I swear he raises a challenging eyebrow in my direction, daring me to move him.
I crinkle my nose, doing my best not to roll my eyes.
“Geoffrey is very much dead. I’m wearing pieces of him.
I’m safe. Why don’t you go search for another shower and help the others gather supplies so we can leave this place as soon as possible? ”
Though he doesn’t look happy, the beast heaves a massive sigh and drags his sorry ass to his feet. His head drops, his tail droops. After a few steps, the mutt pauses to look back at me, and I snort at his obvious antics, shaking my head. “Nice try.”
I don’t even wait to slam the door on his ass.
He chuffs from the other side, then the clicking of claws sounds on the hardwood floors as he finally leaves.
I wrench the hot water to max before stripping.
It doesn’t take long for steam to fill the room, and I gratefully step into the shower… but pause with one foot raised.
I hesitate for a moment, then I whirl, snatch my blade from the counter, and carry it into the shower with me.
Maybe it’s overkill, but I’m still alive for a reason.
I do nothing for a full ten minutes, allowing the heat to boil away the events of the day.
It’s only when the water starts to turn clear that I grab the soap and scrub.
I grimace when the wound on the back of my head throbs as I soap up my hair.
The cut has healed, the knot from the butt of the gun has vanished, but a lingering bruise remains.
Though I’m a little battered, most of the damage was done on the inside when I touched the magic. It’s like overusing a new muscle for the first time. The heat pleasantly numbs most of the pain, and my eyelids grow heavy.
Shadows shift outside the foggy shower stall, and I freeze, my breath stalling in my lungs. Not taking my eyes off the threat, I reach for my blade…then the scent of pine and dirt swirls in the air, mixing with something ancient—a smell that I associate with Dante.
I wait for him to yank open the door and join me, but he appears to be puttering around the room. I continue showering, conscious of every inch of my body, and I ache for a completely different reason. Arousal floats in the air—a combination of his and mine.
Rough breathing fills the small space, then he curses before he storms out.
Disappointment slumps my shoulders, and I debate whether to take care of my arousal on my own. Not a minute later, the aroma of spicy whiskey swirls around the confined space. Pretending I don’t see Tyler, I grab the scrub and give him a show, slowly dragging the loofah over my body.
His hand presses against the glass, his dark gold eyes bright through the steam. Just when I think he might break down the door and join me, the sound of a scuffle fills the space.
Muted voices mutter back and forth angrily, then he’s suddenly yanked from the room.
The scent of thunderstorms and cedar fills my lungs, and I know it’s Garth who physically removed my fox. He’s obviously reluctant to leave, his shadow puttering around the room, and I lift my leg and slowly run my soapy hands down the length.
A growl rumbles from beyond the glass, and I smirk, loving that I can test their self-restraint.
Though still aroused, I’m thoroughly enjoying torturing them.
Five minutes pass, and I thought the men were gone, until the subtle scent of frost merges with the steam and fills my lungs with the crisp taste of winter air.
Bellamy.
I pause in rinsing my hair, glancing at the dagger a few inches away, uncertain how I feel about him invading my space when I’m vulnerable. I continue to wash the long strands, hyperaware of him just inches away, with only a flimsy door separating us.
He prowls the room, cupboard doors open and close, and I nearly snort when I realize he’s making sure there isn’t anyone waiting in the shadows.
It’s a toss-up whether he’s searching for an enemy or one of the guys.
It doesn’t matter that no one would be able to fold themselves up small enough to fit under the sink, and my heart melts a little at his gentle care.
After the last cupboard shuts, the silence stretches. My senses sharpen, my skin extra sensitive at the thought of him joining me. While it wouldn’t be the smartest decision I’ve ever made, I have no fucking doubt it would be worth it.
It’s only when the door to the bathroom snicks shut almost silently that the breath I’ve been holding escapes in a disappointed sigh. I try to tell myself it’s for the best, but my body, and wolf, say otherwise.
The taste of their arousal lingers in the air, and my hands slide between my thighs. It takes an embarrassingly short time for me to orgasm. Just the thought of them watching me from the other side of the door, unable to touch me, apparently does it for me.
I quickly wash the evidence of my deeds away.
Not knowing when I’ll be able to have such a nice shower again, I linger longer than is wise.
When my fingers are pruney and my skin waterlogged, I reluctantly shut off the water.
My skin is a healthy pink from the scrubbing.
I grab the towel, my exhaustion catching up to me.
Despite the swirl of cool air, I’m sleepy, struggling to dry off when all I want to do is take a long nap.
I jolt in surprise when I see a stack of clothing by the sink—four distinct stacks, in fact.
That’s when I realize that the guys must have been leaving me something to wear. From the large piles, it’s obvious that they didn’t talk to each other. They each made me their priority, and my insides melt at their thoughtfulness.
I don’t remember anyone being so considerate. Gramps did a great job of providing for me, but he didn’t coddle me. He expected me to take care of myself.
Obviously, the guys were successful in ransacking the rooms.
Until I see the hodgepodge of items the dorks left me.
I can immediately tell which pile belongs to Dante—there isn’t any underwear.
I doubt that it was an oversight on his part, and I snort in amusement at the idiot.
Tyler isn’t much better when I see the strings of what no one would consider underwear.
Garth was more practical, grabbing me a bulky sweater, wool socks, a jacket, clunky boots, and… insulated pants?
He’s obviously worried that I’ll get cold…or maybe he’s trying to insulate me from the outside world.
The gesture is very sweet.
Bellamy is more practical. Hiking boots, jeans, T-shirt, socks, utilitarian underwear—the basics.
I glance at the piles, then grab clothing from each of them, delighted to have each of their distinctive scents surrounding me. I brush out my hair, humming to myself when I grab my blade and strap it to my thigh.
I’m so distracted, thinking of the guys, that I don’t look up as I open the bathroom door. The rookie mistake costs me, and I’m unprepared when a bloodied hand reaches through the crack, grabs the edge of the door, and flings it open.
Gramps was right—daydreaming about boys is a distraction that can get you killed.
I’m too close to the door to dodge, and the corner slams into my temple hard enough to leave me seeing stars.
Fuck, that hurt!
Warm blood spills down my face, and I stumble back. I grope for my blade, recognizing the scarred face of the man in front of me—the man with the whip, who liked to take his anger out on those weaker than him.
I snarl in rage that he managed to escape retribution for his crimes.
Of fucking course he did.
Rats like him run at the first sign of a sinking ship.
“I warned you not to fuck with me,” he rasps, a malicious grin spreading across his face as he storms into the bathroom. He cracks his knuckles, twisting his neck from side to side in anticipation. “I’m going to enjoy making you hurt.”
Just as I work my blade free, his whip snaps out with a loud crack, and the knife in my hand clatters across the bathroom. The leather strap coils around my arm, and I hastily grab it, then heave back with my full weight.
He stumbles into the room at the unexpected move, and the slack allows me to unwrap the coils.
I don’t have time to dive for my knife before he draws back his arm, and I have to release his whip to dodge his blow.
Unfortunately, the bathroom is too small to go anywhere.
I charge toward the wall, kick off, and throw a punch at the big fucker.