Chapter Ten
Darhg
I didn’t sleep a wink last night, but somehow, I still feel more energized than I’ve felt in months.
Or years.
It doesn’t hurt that I spent most of the night thinking about Rona. Even jerking off three times didn’t dull the relentless lust that filled my mind. I can still taste her on my tongue, smell her sweet, intoxicating pussy whenever I close my eyes.
I’m fucked and I know it. It’s only pure, sheer force of will that allowed me to refuse to fuck her when she asked for it. Because I won’t allow myself to become a monster, possessive and jealous. I refuse to become my father. I won’t stand for it.
Which is why I took Rona out this morning for breakfast at The Wandering Gnome. Because I don’t trust myself to stay this strong if she asks me to feed her with my own hands again.
I’m only an ogre, after all.
Rona and I step out of The Wandering Gnome, bellies full and minds content. She ate with gusto, as always, and made jokes with Mathilda, the gnome proprietor of the restaurant. Jokes at my expense, about how hungry ogres are. How ravenous we are.
It left a warm feeling in my chest, sitting there in the cozy atmosphere of the diner, watching Rona laugh with Mathilda. Happy and carefree and shining. Rona always shines in my eyes.
But now that our meal is done, I can’t conjure up a reason to stay out of our lair.
Shit. Not our lair. My lair.
Ugh. I don’t think I’ll win this battle.
My breath forms white clouds in the bitter morning air as we step into the parking lot.
Rona walks beside me, her cheeks pink from the dining room's warmth, her new winter coat making soft rustling sounds as she moves.
The mundane normalcy of the moment, coffee, conversation, her easy laughter still echoing in my ears. It all feels fragile and precious.
Too precious to last.
I scan the street with automatic vigilance as she happily chats away next to me.
Main Street stretches before us, salt-covered sidewalks gleaming in the bright winter sunlight, snow piled in pristine drifts along the curbs.
A few bundled townspeople hurry between shops, their footsteps crunching on the treated walkways.
Everything appears normal. Peaceful, even.
Then a gray van noses onto Main Street, moving slowly through the empty street.
My eyes latch on to it, and every instinct in my body screams at me not to look away.
It drives slowly, too slowly. I stare, frustrated not to see the driver.
It’s still too far, but there’s something about that van that feels familiar. Familiar, but not in a good way.
“Get behind me.” I reach for Rona, who stops her chatter to look up at me.
I don’t look back, though; my eyes are glued to that van.
I see her opening her mouth from the corner of my eyes, but she closes it without arguing and follows my gesture to get behind my body.
I’m so large, I cover her entirely from view.
And it’s just as well.
My entire body shifts into high alert as I recognize the driver through the windshield.
It’s Gribble Nix. The same gnome reporter who'd been sniffing around the hotel fundraiser, looking for a story about the Quinn family. The same reporter who was first on-site at Rona’s apartment after the video was leaked.
What the fuck is he doing here? How did he know Rona is in Saltford Bay?
This cannot be a coincidence. Someone leaked her location to the vultures.
It’s only sheer luck that we’re right in front of Elga’s flower shop and she just flipped on the open sign.
"Inside," I say sharply. “Now.”
"What?" She blinks up at me, confusion replacing the contentment that had been lighting her features moments before. “Why?”
I don't explain. There's no time. The van is still half a block away, but Gribble's head is already turning, scanning the sidewalks with his sharp beady little eyes. He’s like a hyena, sniffing the air for easy prey.
I steer Rona toward the door, and we slip inside to the cheerful welcome of the bells hanging above the door.
Elga looks up from behind the counter where she's arranging white roses in a tall vase, her eyes filling with glee as she recognizes us.
That glee immediately deserts her face as she takes in my expression.
Jennifer emerges from the back workroom, honey-brown hair catching the morning light streaming through the shop windows.
It only takes the human a few seconds to register the mood, and she blinks, immediately alarmed.
"Darhg?" Elga's voice is full of concern. "What's wrong?"
"I need to use your back room," I say tersely, already guiding Rona deeper into the shop. "There’s no time to explain now, but there’s a tabloid photographer outside. Gray van. He’s looking for Rona."
Understanding flashes across Elga's face, followed by determination. She sets down her roses and looks at Jennifer.
"Of course," she says. "Jennifer, eyes on the street. I've got this."
I guide Rona through the swinging door and into the small back room that doubles as their office and kitchenette, firmly placing Rona against the wall and away from the window.
She glances at me, her blue eyes wide with fear, but she remains silent.
It’s like she instinctively trusts me and that fact alone is enough to make me swallow back a growl.
If Rona trusts me to keep her safe, I will protect her with everything I have.
The bell chimes again, and I position myself where I can watch the shop but remain hidden. Through the back room's small window, I watch Gribble Nix enter the shop, his camera equipment jangling with every step, his pointed face split in an obsequious grin that makes me want to snarl.
"Good morning!" Elga's voice is bright and welcoming, the perfect picture of a friendly local shopkeeper. "How can I help you today?"
"Gribble Nix, freelance reporter for The Sizzle," he announces, already pulling out his phone and what looks like a press credential. "I'm looking for someone, and I was hoping you might have seen her around town."
"Oh? How exciting!" Jennifer chimes in, her tone pleasantly curious, playing her role perfectly well. "Who might that be?"
Gribble Nix’s grin stretches as he puffs out his chest, his pointed ears turning a shade darker. He preens like a peacock, nodding his head to the two women like he’s doing them a favor by stepping into their shop.
“Young woman, about twenty-three, strawberry-blond hair, pale-blue eyes. Tall, pretty.”
He scrolls through his phone as he talks, then flips the screen over to show them what I assume are pictures of Rona. Elga and Jennifer bend over, looking at the screen. From the distance, I notice Elga’s jaw clenching for just a second before she relaxes.
“Can’t say I’ve seen her around.” Jennifer delivers her reply with a perfectly innocent pout. “Who is she, if you don’t mind? It’s not every day we have reporters from such a big name as The Sizzle. I just love that magazine. It has all the best gossip!”
If I could kiss Jennifer right now, I would. The woman is an excellent actress. She deserves an Oscar for her performance.
Gribble flips off his phone and pockets it. His grin falls, and his eyes turn bright and conspiratorial. That man sure loves gossip. It shouldn’t be surprising since he’s working for a rumor mill after all.
"She’s Rona Quinn, Senator Melissa Quinn's daughter. I have it on good authority that she's in Saltford Bay under the protection of her mother’s bodyguard."
My blood runs cold. He knows too much. Way too much.
"Senator Quinn's daughter? Isn’t she the senator who leads the inquiry about all that fake content on social media?" Elga questions, and I can practically hear her eyebrows rising. "You think a rich girl like that is hanging out in little old Saltford Bay? That seems unlikely."
"Not as unlikely as you might think," Gribble says, his voice taking on the pushy edge I remember from the hotel.
"See, I've got sources that say her bodyguard is actually from here.
And I know she's been spotted in town, shopping for winter clothes, having breakfast at local establishments. Ring any bells?"
Someone on the inside sold Rona out.
The implications hit me like a freight train. Someone close to Senator Quinn is the mole. Someone with enough access to dig out our location. That list is not long.
“A bodyguard hiding a famous woman’s daughter in our town?” Jennifer steps forward, her voice carrying just the right note of excitement. "Oh my, that does sound exciting."
"It’s a great story," Gribble says, his camera clicking as he starts photographing the shop's interior. "And where there's a Quinn, there's usually a story worth telling. The kind that pays well, if you catch my meaning."
Through the small window, I watch him reach inside his coat pocket and retrieve a bill. He slides it across the counter to Elga, who watches it with a stony expression that should give him a stern warning, if he wasn’t so engrossed in his own story to listen.
"Well, I can't say I've seen anyone matching that description in here," Elga says, putting her index finger on the bill and sliding it back to Gribble. "Though you might want to try the Saltwater Lodge. That's where most out-of-town visitors stay, especially the fancy ones."
Brilliant. Elga's sending him in completely the wrong direction.
"The Saltwater Lodge," Gribble repeats, making notes. "That's where, exactly?"
"About fifteen minutes up the coast," Jennifer chimes in helpfully. "Just follow Shore Road north until you see the big white building with the wraparound porch. You can't miss it."
"And they'd have records of guests?"
"Oh, I'm sure they would," Elga says with perfect innocence. "The owner, Cassidy, is very thorough about that sort of thing. Runs a tight ship."
I watch Gribble nod, apparently satisfied with this information. But he's not done yet.