Chapter 23
Alice
With my temple resting against the truck’s sun-warmed window, an alien feeling of contentment blooms in my chest. Though the day is chilly, the truck’s been baking in the sun for almost an hour now, and the temperature inside is perfect.
It’s the kind of coziness that might’ve lulled me into drowsiness were I not so amped up about ten different things.
First, Dr. Waterhouse’s theories. It felt good to toss around my thoughts with another academic, and it felt even better to have our theoretical knowledge backed up by Wyatt’s real-life experience.
Second, her offer of a spot in the folklore doctorate program.
I’d actually wanted to apply to Three Ravens right out of my undergraduate degree, but then Sector had shown up.
My options were OrthCon or a black site.
Or worse, maybe. I guess there are too many like-minded weirdos up here in Stonehaven County, and Sector wanted to keep me away from it all.
Third, and perhaps most pressing—at least judging by the way I’ve got my legs crossed tight, my hands tucked under my thighs—is how feverishly Wyatt kissed me back in Dr. Waterhouse’s office.
He makes me feel like a teenager sneaking away from the bonfire to kiss my crush in the twilight gloom of the tree line.
He makes me feel like I have some kind of purpose, some kind of a future, some kind of a life that consists of more than being underestimated and having to constantly beg people to consider that I might actually be onto something, not just batshit insane.
I press my forehead against the warm window and pull in a deep breath.
I understand the things I’m thinking and feeling fall under the umbrella of what’s commonly identified as love.
This isn’t infatuation—at least, I don’t think.
I wouldn’t have been able to wait this long to sleep with him if that were the case.
But I’ve been holding off, I guess, even though I really, really want to have sex with Wyatt Hayes. Of course I do.
But with him, it’ll mean something. Like a declaration or an intention.
A promise that I’m going to stay. Or that I want him to ask me to stay.
I swallow hard, pulling my knees up to my chest, shins pressed against the dashboard.
I’d make that promise right here, right now.
But I don’t know if he’s there, and goddammit, I’m too much of a coward to ask.
I don’t know what I’ll do if he says no, or if he just isn’t sure yet.
So, like an adult, I’m just avoiding it entirely.
Besides, he seems pretty damn content with making out like high schoolers, at least based on how tight his jeans get below the belt every time.
I groan, cranking the window down for some cold air. I can’t be thinking about that, not when I don’t know how long I’ll be waiting or if he’ll be covered in the same goo as the student-researcher.
“Honestly, I’d probably be all over him even with the goo,” I admit to myself with only a twinge of shame, grinning like a madwoman. I catch a glance of someone walking toward the truck, and my heart slams against my ribs.
But it’s not Wyatt. It’s a student, I think, in a dark green skirt that flows like wind in the summer leaves.
She strides through the parking lot, her gaze locked on the woods behind me.
A tiny spike of anxiety strikes me, and I glance over my shoulder into the tree line, but there’s nothing there.
I turn back just as the woman draws even with the truck.
I can’t help but notice she’s incredibly beautiful: tawny brown skin kissed by the sun, long locks of golden hair, and big, dark eyes.
When the light hits her hair, a strange, spring-green shimmer runs along the strands.
She doesn’t seem to notice me. I get it; if I were going out into the woods to collect a sample in the middle of my research, I wouldn’t notice an entire mariachi band set up in the parking lot.
I lean against the window, curious as always.
I think about calling out to her, apparently hungry for another discussion with a fellow academic. Once I get started, it’s hard to stop.
But then the driver’s-side door opens. I startle, turning to find Wyatt sliding into the truck. He’s mercilessly goo-less, and all thoughts of the student-researcher in the flowy skirt evaporate from my mind.
“Oh, thank fuck,” I murmur, drinking him in—the flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, the sharp line of his jaw covered in dark stubble, the mischievous quirk of his mouth. “I was worried you’d be covered in bluecap slime.”
He pulls the door closed behind him and slides closer to me. “Suppose then I’d just have to strip for you,” he says with a grin. “You’d hate that, I’m sure.”
I laugh, reaching for him. “I can’t imagine a worse fate,” I reply, shuffling over to the middle of the wide bench seat. He captures my waist with both hands, pulling me into his lap, and I’m all too happy to oblige.
“Spriggans, not bluecaps,” he tells me in a low, breathy tone, his chest hitching as I move to straddle him, gripping his broad shoulders. “Should’ve known. Typical spriggan humor.”
For once in my life, I don’t give a single shit about Them.
I have no urge to ask questions about spriggans or pull my notebook from my back pocket.
I only want to drown in the deep, dark forest of Wyatt’s kiss.
He traces the side of my face with one hand as I press myself closer to him, arching my back.
I take fistfuls of his flannel in both hands and kiss him before my mind betrays me.
He tastes like bonfire smoke and caramel coffee.
I gasp against his lips, threading my fingers into his dark, tousled hair.
One of his hands slips beneath my sweater, flattening against the small of my back.
My body responds immediately, my hips grinding against him, and I’m left with little doubt that Wyatt wants me as badly as I want him.
His tongue slides into my mouth, and desire roars through my body like a wildfire.
Before I can think better of it, I’m pulling off my sweater, tossing it into the back of the truck’s cab.
“Gods, Alice,” he growls, his dark eyes sliding down my body, lingering on the skimpy bralette.
“Like what you see, Hayes?” I ask, trying to shove his flannel off his shoulders.
He answers me with a low, breathless sound, wrapping both hands around my waist and pulling me even closer. His mouth meets my collarbone, his fingertips sliding beneath the strap of my bralette.
I shrug my shoulder, letting the silky strap tumble down around my bicep. The sound of his sharp, hungry inhale summons even more damp heat between my legs. When he kisses the curve of my breast, his lips impossibly soft and his breath hot against my skin, I whimper.
“More, Wyatt,” I beg, wrapping my fingers around his hand and dragging it to the waistband of my jeans.
He laughs against my skin, pulling away just enough to meet my gaze.
Mischief glitters in his dark brown eyes, making me think of the smoky quartz clusters a roommate used to keep lined up on her windowsill: deep and fathomless, all sharp corners and hard angles until the sun hit them just right. Then, nothing short of magic.
And that’s precisely what it feels like when Wyatt unbuttons my jeans and slides his large, powerful hand beneath the band of my underwear.
He’s barely touching me—and not even touching me where I’m begging to be touched, not quite—but I still let out a cry.
With anyone else, I might be self-conscious about it, but not with him.
“You’re insatiable, aren’t you, Alice?” he asks, wrapping his free hand around the back of my neck and dragging my mouth to his. I tumble into his kiss, driving my hips against his fingers.
“You knew what you were getting into,” I gasp against his lips. I feel him smile, and then his fingertips press against the place I’ve been daydreaming about him touching me for too long. Desperately, I fumble at his belt buckle.
“Not so fast, Miss Blythe,” Wyatt drawls as his slow circles at the apex of my thighs come to an agonizing halt. “I’ve been thinking about this for longer than I think is wise to tell you. I don’t want any distractions.”
I heave a deep breath. His hand slides down my neck to my collarbone and then lower, cupping my breast in his fingers, his thumb brushing my nipple. I can’t honestly think of the last time any guy I hooked up with was more concerned about my pleasure than his own.
“How are you so perfect?” I ask. I mean to say it playfully, in that arch tone I’m so accustomed to using, but it comes out far too honestly.
The words scrape at the side of my throat as I gaze down at him—the flush in his cheeks, his hair tousled by my fingers, his lips swollen from the intensity of our exchange.
Wyatt looks up at me with surprise, one eyebrow raised.
If he says something clever, I miss it, because he increases the pressure at my core and pleasure surges through me.
I’m putty in his arms, melting further and further into his strong embrace, not a single thought in my mind. Well, except for one:
I could absolutely fall in love with Wyatt Hayes.
Suddenly, he goes stock-still beneath me. The breath I pull in to ask what’s wrong answers my question—the taste of sulfur fills my mouth, and I gag, reaching over to crank the window back up.
“Not a godsdamned moment of peace,” Wyatt snaps, pulling me closer against him as he peers over my shoulder through the windshield.
I yank my sweater on—I’m not getting caught with my not-so-proverbial pants down by a fucking hellhound—and zip up my jeans with shaking hands.
“I don’t see it,” I bite out, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Me, neither,” he says, staring out into the sunset-gilded parking lot.
“That’s actually…worse?” I offer just as the truck rocks with impact. I scramble for the pistol I know he keeps in the glove compartment at the same time he starts swearing, yanking down the sun visor where the keys are stowed and slamming them into the ignition.
Clutching the pistol to my chest—where it’ll do a ton of good; great job, Alice—I tilt my chin back in what feels like slow motion, looking up at the cabin’s roof.
Indents punch into the metal, like something heavy is crouched above our heads.
Wyatt notices at the same time, his entire body preternaturally still as he takes in the situation with an emotionless expression.
The truck creaks, the cabin rocking again. Sulfur chokes me. “Is it…” I whisper as quietly as I can, pointing at the roof. He doesn’t turn my way, but he gives me a sharp nod. Summoning my bravery, I let out a long breath and then, slowly as I can, set the pistol down on the bench seat between us.
That gets his attention. Wyatt’s eyes meet mine as the cabin roof groans beneath the weight of what I presume is a hellhound. “Bullets,” he whispers, lifting his chin in the direction of the glove compartment.
“They didn’t want to hurt us at Caden’s,” I tell him in a low, strained voice.
He narrows his eyes at me in confusion. When he understands, his gaze widens, but he doesn’t look at me like I’m completely insane—which, honestly, I wouldn’t blame him for in this scenario. I’m going off a hell of a hunch, and nobody likes testing a hunch in real time.
“But the redcaps would’ve,” he whispers. God, I love how quickly this man can put the pieces together. And from his demonstration, I’m also fairly confident he’s gonna be good at making me orgasm. Two points for Wyatt.
“So what’s the real threat?” I reply, trying not to think about how close I was to coming for him, because it sort of seems like we should deal with the otherworldly creature first. It’s the hedgerider way of life, I’m learning.
Wyatt leans forward onto the dash, careful to keep away from the windshield, though I’m pretty sure the terrifying beast straight out of folklore knows we’re in the truck. I search the parking lot, too, fighting against the glare of the setting sun.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Wyatt. Do you see them?”
“Sure do,” he replies. “Ten o’clock.”
Across the parking lot—it’s more eleven o’clock to me, but whatever—is a dark SUV with tinted windows.
I can’t make out the license plate from here, but I’d be willing to bet even Caden wouldn’t be able to run ’em.
About fifteen or twenty paces ahead of the SUV, and moving toward us fast, are four Sector agents.
Well, I assume they’re Sector despite their entirely innocuous appearances that, quite frankly, I would’ve never been able to discern from the general populace of Blackbird Hollow.
But something gives them away pretty easily.
The guns.
Not hunters’ rifles or even the big rock-salt shotguns the Hayes give out to the more reasonable locals this time of year. No—fucking machine guns, half the size of the people wielding them. My mind goes blank, my mouth dry, my heart throwing itself against the cage of my ribs.
Last time I saw guns like that was back on my grandparents’ farm. The government isn’t even supposed to have weapons like this anymore, not after the Treatise and then the Reformation.
But their sights are trained on us all the same.
“Wyatt,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Bullets, Alice.”
“Right, right,” I say, shuffling through the glove compartment with both hands. Before I manage to locate the ammo, the cabin creaks, and then the entire truck shakes. A loud, metallic bang rings out, and for a long, terrifying moment, I’m pretty sure one or both of us has been shot.
But I’m wrong—so deeply wrong. Instead, there’s a hellhound crouched on the hood of Wyatt’s truck.
The setting sun gilds the unnatural arch of its spine and turns the dripping pools of its saliva into molten gold.
The sound of its growl—slithering and raw, unlike the sound of any earthly mammal—slinks into my ears.
Dread rattles me. Until I realize the hellhound is facing away from us, placing itself between us and Sector. Almost like it’s…
“Have I fucking lost it?” I whisper.
“Nah,” Wyatt replies, though he’s still loading the pistol’s chamber. “Well, maybe a little. But no. The hellhound seems to be protecting us.”
“Huh,” I say, blinking slowly. “That sure wasn’t on my bingo card.”