I study him and try not to fidget.
“Do you need anything, Noah?” he presses, a wicked smile stretching across his face and highlighting the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
I shut the door without answering and immediately walk away, needing space.
So much space. And maybe a cold shower.
He has a Red Hots smile, I realize as I watch Ellery from the spyhole in my door. He’s got the kind of grin that burns the inside of your mouth while still tasting oh-so-sweet, just like the candy. It’s unfair. How am I supposed to ignore him when he looks like that?
Giving a defeated sigh, because I already know I’ve lost this battle, I move away from the peephole.
Opening my door to greet him, I quip, “You always make nightly house calls, Sheriff?”
A hint of a smile starts at one corner of his mouth. “I do when it involves my mate,” he retorts.
Shit. There’s that word again. And why do I feel like that statement was loaded with double entendre?
Preemptively, he holds up a hand before I say something to refute the mate part.
I hold my tongue only because I want more information. Yesterday, when he said he couldn’t find any of my things, I felt hopeless. Pissed. I hate that someone stole my things. I don’t like thinking about someone in my car. Using my phone. What if they hacked it and are looking at all my messages? And without my Bronco, I feel trapped.
I’ve been fighting that feeling by ignoring it and watching reruns of The Office all day as I try to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich. I could really use some good news tonight.
But the second his expression turns serious, I know I’m not going to get what I want.
“We pulled video feeds from all the nearby stores. I had vampires review them—their night vision is unmatched—but we couldn’t get an ID on the driver. There’s footage of your car leaving Main Street, but it’s only from behind.”
He sounds disappointed.
Me? I’m far more than that. I’m all over the place. I feel like I just hit a massive drop on a roller coaster at Six Flags. And I hate roller coasters.
Even if those videos didn’t show a face, they caught someone driving off in my car. Someone who has taken everything from me, now in more ways than one.
The wood of the door creaks and groans in protest, and I realize I’m squeezing it. I let go and fold my arms over my chest.
“They stripped me down and tossed me in the Hunt, and they robbed me…why?” I ask, and the sheriff’s eyes cloud with anger.
“I don’t know yet, but we’ll get there, Noah,” Ellery promises, stepping closer, his eyes growing dark.
The scent of violence seems to engulf me, and I drink it down eagerly. It’s violence on my behalf and I want to glut myself on it until we find the fucker who did this to me.
The sheriff’s gaze caresses me as he adds, “We’ll catch them and, in between their screams, we’ll find out why they dared to fucking touch you. Then I’ll make them sorry they did.”
14
NOAH
FRIDAY
The shower is where I come up with all my brightest ideas. I stand underneath the warm jet of water, musing over the guys and how they always seem to bring me just what I need. Are they seriously in tune with emotions? Did their mothers raise them that fucking well? Memory and intuition niggle at me.
And then I have a revelation. It’s not a good one. “Oh, shit.”
Scurrying to scrub the shampoo out of my hair, I towel off quickly and toss on whatever clothes are left in the bag Ellery brought me. Morning sunlight is barely seeping in through the windows when I yank open my hotel door, a question already spilling from my lips as I pull my wet hair into a high ponytail. “Can you read minds?” I ask. But I stop short when I don’t see Perth or Ruger lurking in the hallway with my breakfast.
No, instead I see Gannon. He’s avoiding the designated babysitter chair, leaning against the far wall—sans food—and he does not look happy to be here. His gray eyes are narrowed into slits and his arms are crossed defensively, a jacket dangling from one of them. The pose only helps emphasize the way his shirt pulls tight against his frame. Today, he’s in a black Henley with black jeans that would normally make me sit up and take notice—that is if he wasn’t currently radiating a whole lot of irritated asshole.
Why is he mad? Is he pissed about being here? Something else? His anger makes me miss a loop on my ponytail. Instead of restarting, I give up on the ponytail and pull out the band, playing with it. “Hi. I didn’t realize it was you.” He hasn’t shown up here before, and his mood leaves me hesitant.
Immediately, his frown turns into a full-on glower. “It’s me,” he agrees.
“Who spit in his coffee? Geez. With his stellar personality, I bet he works at the DMV.”
“What are you doing out here?” he snaps.
I pull in a deep breath and immediately mirror his posture and tone. If he wants to be a dick, I can match that energy. I should probably just close the door and wait to ask one of the others my questions, but I don’t.
I haven’t seen Gannon since he slinked out of Ellery’s office the other day. He’s part of their den and yet he hasn’t been here like the others have. A little piece of me is rubbed raw by that, but I don’t want to think about why.
Instead, I’m going to focus on making him as annoyed as he makes me, by asking questions when all he wants is for me to disappear.
“Can you read minds or project thoughts or something?” I press again, not willing to let this go.
When I was scrubbing my hair, I was running through everything that’s happened, and I remembered that weird thing with Alpha Morgan in Ellery’s office. I’d forgotten all about it until now, and I’m itching to know what the hell that was.
Gannon’s nostrils flare and he stares at me like he’s not going to answer. But then I hear—inside my head—“It’s not mind reading, it’s called mindspeak. The alpha can do it, and denmates can too,” he answers, his tone utterly put out, like having to explain any of this to me is the height of annoyance to him.
I gasp and take a step back, my eyes never leaving his lips, lips that stay perfectly still despite his voice ringing loud and clear in my mind. Just like with the alpha.
“Mindspeak? Fuck a duck on Tuesday, they can mindspeak.”
“I can hear you,” Gannon points out.
“How the hell did he—”
“You’re still doing it,” he grumps, switching his weight from one foot to the other, like his body is about to fall asleep from boredom.
“You’re a dick. Did you hear that?” I think.
Gannon doesn’t answer, but his scowl is answer enough. Fuck him for being a hot scowler.
“If you don’t want to hear me, help instead of just standing there pouting,” I snap.