Chapter 21 #2
Why had someone done this to her? What made her a target?
Beyond the door, the muttered voices were growing louder. Impatient. He recognized his uncle’s among them as well as some strangers.
Fates, she was still trembling. He couldn’t have them all coming in here.
Her fucking hands could barely grip his leathers.
It lodged a knot in his throat and tore at his chest like his damn heart was being shredded by a jungle cat, with fangs and claws; it could have him if only it would make her stop shaking.
“You don’t have to stay here,” Roremar muttered.
“I-I’m ok-kay.”
“You aren’t staying here, Emmeline,” he asserted, her quivering making his own voice waver.
“I-I am o—”
She shook her head as Roremar crouched. “Do you trust me?” he whispered in her ear. The answering hitch in her breath echoed through his entire body.
Wordlessly, Emmeline pulled back to meet his eyes. And she nodded.
Roremar tucked one arm behind her knees, wrapping the other around her back.
Standing, he cradled Emmeline against his chest, her sweet lavender and pure starlight scent consuming him as her head fell against his shoulder.
She didn’t even argue as he strode past everyone in the corridor, a sure sign that she wasn’t okay, no matter how many times she stuttered out those two words.
As he held her, his own heart rate calmed, too, his undiluted rage tempering as he focused on Emmeline.
He looked down at her once they were outside. Her eyes had fallen closed, dark lashes shadowing pale cheeks, freckles stark. And he couldn’t help asking, “Is this okay?”
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed. Then, a moment later, she asked, “Where will I go?”
And Roremar didn’t hesitate to say, “Somewhere safe.”
She’d fallen asleep by the time they got to the apartment, as if after the fear and fight, her body finally knew it was okay to rest. That she would be taken care of.
Gently, Roremar laid her on the bed beneath the window, careful not to jostle her or press anything against her bruises.
Moonlight splashed over her features, peaceful now and color returning, hands balled beneath her cheek.
It was a serenity he never saw within her.
She was always looking over her shoulder, waiting for the world to crumble.
Here, now, though, she finally relaxed.
Brushing a hand across her forehead, Roremar tucked a lose strand of hair behind her ear, embedding those purple splotches into his memory. A twisted part of him wanted to feel them on his own skin, make her pain his.
Why did she feel like his to protect?
He shook away the thought. He’d have to see if Desmond had something to put on the bruises, but he didn’t want to wake her.
His reluctance to leave warred with the anger churning through his blood, but eventually, he brushed his thumb across her cheekbone and whispered, “Sleep tight, Huntress. You’re safe now.” And he headed for the door.
“How is she?” Desmond asked when Roremar slipped onto the small porch above the tattoo parlor. The mystlight lantern hanging by the thin wooden door cast a dim yellow light around the four-square-foot space, stairs leading to the deserted street below.
“Sleeping.”
“Not what I asked, Rore.”
He dragged his hands through his hair, rings catching on the tangles. “It’s the only answer I have.”
Desmond crossed his arms, leaning against the wrought iron rail with a bottle of ale dangling between his fingers. “How are you?”
Roremar heard all the questions his friend didn’t ask. What happened to you back there? How did you know she was hurt, and why did it send you into a frenzy?
He didn’t have answers for those either.
“I’ll be fine,” Roremar said. It was the only option he had—always was. “Thanks for letting me bring her here.”
“No problem.”
“She may want to stay for a while.” The idea of her returning to the dormitory tightened Roremar’s chest, but if she insisted, he’d have no choice.
“You know the place is empty. It’s hers if she needs it.”
Desmond owned the entire building. The parlor on the ground level, the basement apartment, and the second story, but this one had been vacant for as long as Roremar could remember.
It was furnished well enough with a bed, small chaise and armchairs, semi-stocked kitchen, table, and bathing chamber. But Des never called it home.
“Did Nico go back to the house?” Roremar asked.
Desmond grinned, and the suspicion trickling through Roremar was the most normal thing he’d felt all night. “He did, but not before running into a woman in the Academy dormitories.”
He blinked rapidly. “What?”
“It seems your little brother has been keeping secrets.” Desmond laughed, thoroughly entertained. “He wasn’t too keen on sharing them with me, but maybe he’ll tell you.”
“Why are you so thrilled?”
“Because whoever she was, she had quite a fortune to pick with Nico. He was stunned to see her, and she appeared equally shocked to see him—something that had her declaring very colorful threats about chopping off his cock if he spoke to her.” Desmond sipped his drink.
“Don’t know what he did, but I want to. She was a fiery little thing. ”
Roremar pursed his lips. Fucking Fates, Nico. Just what he needed, another mess to clean up. He sighed, braced both hands on the railing, and tipped his head toward the stars.
What were they planning with all of this? And why the fuck couldn’t they leave the people he cared about out of it?
“We’re going to find out who did this,” Desmond assured him, much more somber than moments ago, his temper bubbling beneath the surface.
“Yeah, I fucking am,” Roremar swore.
Bruises flashed through his memory. Broken hazel eyes and a whispered please, too afraid to ask for help.
He vowed to the stars above he’d find whoever did this and shred their skin from their bones until that odd pull in his chest was satisfied.
Emmeline may be his huntress, but tonight someone tried to turn her into prey. And he couldn’t help but feel as if, thanks to this case his uncle had assigned them, it was partially his fault.