Chapter 12
Twelve
River
I wake up disoriented.
For one terrifying second, I don’t know where I am.
I just know I’m not in my apartment.
The mattress beneath me is too soft. The room too large. The air too quiet.
Then memories crash back in all at once and I sit upright too fast, the slightly unfamiliar guest room spinning slightly around me.
When was the last time I ate?
It’s light out, the sky bright with afternoon sunshine and I’m stiff, as though I’ve slept for hours.
Well, that and the bruises littering my body.
I lift a hand gently to my cheek and wince.
The cut hadn’t needed stitches, but I am sporting a lovely bandage, and will be doing so for a few days.
Not the first time.
Hopefully the last.
I exhale quietly and push the covers back.
Movement near the foot of the bed makes me freeze, my heart skipping a beat—at least until Violet pokes her head out of the tangle of blankets, stretching dramatically before trotting toward me on tiny, determined paws.
“Hi, adorable girl,” I whisper.
I scoop her into my lap automatically, ignore the fact that my hands are shaking.
I hate that.
Hate how fear settles into my body and lingers there long after the danger passes.
Slowly, I press my forehead against Violet’s tiny body.
She purrs loudly in response.
A quiet knock sounds against the partially open bedroom door, and I turn to see Thorn standing in the hall. “River?”
Tension knots my shoulders before I can stop it.
Last night was…
Amazing. Awkward. Terrifying.
And I don’t mean the kidnapping.
I stifle a snort, fully aware that I’m losing it—either that or channeling Westley from The Princess Bride.
“I’m awake,” I call, pushing away fiction and focusing on the present.
Yet another terrifying prospect.
Thorn steps into the room, carrying a tray, the scent of coffee reaching my nose. “Figured you might be hungry.”
My breath catches.
At the kindness. At the sight of him.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him not in a suit, and he looks absurdly gorgeous in the fitted T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His beard is thicker than normal and his feet are bare.
Why does that feel strangely innocent? To discover he has nice feet?
Clearly, I’m losing it.
“Little hen?”
“Thanks,” I say. “I am hungry.”
He nods and drifts over, settling the tray over my lap. “You should eat. You look pale.”
“Honest as always,” I tease.
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly then he nudges the tray closer. “It’s not something you made, but it is from Molly’s so it’s pretty good.”
My heart squeezes. “You got me Molly’s?”
“No.”
I blink.
“I sent one of Pascal’s guys out to get it.”
“Why?” I ask, the question feeling suddenly important. Very important.
He frowns. “Why?”
“Why did you send Pascal’s guy out?”
His frown deepens.
“I’m sure you have food in your fridge,” I say. “I could have made myself something. Or I can go back to my apartment—”
“No.”
I pause. Blink again. “No to the food in my fridge or no to me making myself something?”
“Both of those,” he says, unfolding the napkin and settling it over my lap. “And also no to going back to your apartment.”
“Um…”
“Your apartment isn’t safe.” He scowls. “Even with the added security measures I had Pascal put in place.”
“You put security measures in place—?”
“And you’re tired and hurting,” he goes on. “You need to eat and rest and heal. So, you won’t be cooking.” It’s an order, but it’s somehow both gentle and sweet and only slightly pisses me off, especially when he adds, “At least not today.”
“Thorn,” I begin.
“Eat,” he orders, and this one sends me right by slightly and straight to pissed-off.
“Thorn.”
“Eat.”
“Thorn!”
He gives an exasperated sigh. “What, River?”
“You should eat too.”
He stills, an emotion I can’t read drifting through his expression. “I’ll go eat something, little hen,” he murmurs.
“I can share,” I say, pushing the tray slightly in his direction. “There’s plenty here.” And it’s not a lie. There’s coffee and tea, a breakfast sandwich and at least four pastries. Even on my best day, I couldn’t finish a quarter of it.
Thorn’s eyes lock on mine, the deep green depths delving into mine.
Then he slowly shifts, sitting on the edge of the bed.
I take a careful sip of coffee, find it’s exactly how I take it.
And there my heart goes again. This man, this man who thinks he’s a monster has brought me breakfast in bed and knows how I take my coffee and is pulling a bag of gourmet treats out of his pocket, feeding Violet a generous handful.
But he doesn’t eat.
Not yet.
Not until I finish the breakfast sandwich and half of the chocolate croissant then lean back against the pillows, my belly content (well, okay, it’s more than content, it’s full). Only then does he pick up the apple cinnamon muffin and carefully peel the wrapper off.
“How do you take your tea?” I ask because I know things about Thorn too.
He doesn’t drink coffee. Only tea. He really likes my mac n cheese.
He talks quietly and moves slowly and treats me gently and orders me to eat.
And…he doesn’t like chocolate.
Inconceivable.
He goes still, those emotions twisting through his eyes once more. Then he murmurs, “Splash of milk. One sugar.” I nod and mix it up, handing it to him and getting a soft, “Thanks, little hen,” in response.
I want to ask him what he keep calling me that, what it means. But…I like it. And he might stop if I do. So instead, I let the silence fall between us, wait for him to eat and drink, and it’s only when the tray is empty that I get the courage to ask, “What happens now?”
His expression changes instantly, and I can almost see the steel-lined shutters dropping down around him, the concrete walls sliding back into place.
“You stay here.”
It’s another command, and one fierce enough to get my back up.
“Excuse me?” I ask archly.
“You aren’t leaving this apartment,” he declares. “Not until it’s safe. Not until the threats against you are neutralized.”
“Oh really?” I ask (and for the record, it’s still archly).
“Really.”
“How about I ask Briar and Brooks what they think about that?”
“I think,” he says, “considering that Angela Rousseau held Briar at gunpoint last night, he’s not likely to compromise anyone’s safety.”
“What?” I exclaim. “Is she okay?”
“Yes.” He picks up the tray and walks out into the hall, leaving me with only the half-filled cup of coffee and Violet curled at my side.
“Um,” I whisper, setting the mug onto the nightstand, tossing the covers back, and getting to my feet.
Before I can even begin my search for fresh clothes (I’m wearing an old T-shirt and pair of sweats of Thorn’s), he’s back.
“You could,” he says.
My eyebrows drag together. “Um, what?”
“You could stay with Briar and Brooks,” he says. “I—” He closes his eyes, inhales deeply then exhales just as heavily. “I’m not being reasonable about this. You could stay with them. They’re moving to his estate and will have security there too. You’d be as safe there as you are here.”
I just stare at him.
“But I don’t want you to go.” He clenches his teeth together, as though trying to cut off the flow of words, but it doesn’t work, and the words keep coming. “Because I like you here.”
“But all I’ve done is sleep here,” I point out.
A shrug. “The truth still stands.”
I glance down at my hands. “I don’t…”
“Don’t what?” he asks softly.
“I don’t understand what’s happening between us.” I just understand what I want, what I’m scared of, what I need. But I don’t understand…this. Us.
Silence.
Then, “River.”
Something about the way he says my name makes me look up.
He’s watching me with those intense green eyes. “You only need to understand that I’m no good for you.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I don’t get why he’s saying that, don’t understand his connection to the Lyons, why he thinks it’s his fault they took me. I don’t understand any freaking thing.
Except that he means what he just said, same as he meant it when he said he was a monster.
And I hate that. So freaking much.
My throat goes tight, my eyes burn. “Thorn,” I whisper. “Come here.”
His face gentles and slowly, he steps closer. But there’s not a speck of fear in me, not the slightest bit in my soul.
I just want him to touch me.
To kiss me.
My lips part on a shaky exhale and heat burns through me when his eyes go to my mouth, when he shifts even closer, when those fingertips brush along my jaw. “River,” he rasps, bending and—
A phone rings in the other room.
He freezes, drops his hand like it’s been burned, and skitters back a step like the ground is going to give way and take him down with it.
Then he turns to go.
But he pauses in the doorway, his gaze coming back to mine.
Holding.
“Stay, little hen,” he says before he disappears.
And it’s not an order. Not really.
It’s…a plea. To stay in bed. To stay here. To stay with Thorn.
“Meow?”
I turn to see Violet standing at the end of the bed and shake my head at myself, at the confusing man, at the decision I make in the next heartbeat that will likely be a mistake.
“Yeah, baby,” I tell her as I scratch her behind her ears,
“I guess I’m staying.”