Hunted (Riley Cray) (16 page)

“I’m sorry, it’s all a bit too much to take in,” I managed to say, opening my eyes again to see the two men looking at me with similar expressions.

The pity, so evident on their faces, riled me more than if they had been laying the fault of Samson’s actions at my feet. I’d had my fill of pity throughout my relatively short life – first when my mother ran off in the middle of the night, and again when my father died in action, leaving me parentless. The pity I had experienced then paled in comparison to that I saw reflected in the faces of everyone I knew when my grandfather died, slipping away suddenly due to a heart attack while driving into town for a can of bait. His truck, still dented from where it had impacted with the tree when it inevitably went off the road, sat in the garage beside my cabin, smothered under a tarp. It would’ve cost a fortune to fix, but I’d never been able to bring myself to get rid of it. That rusty old pickup held a childhood’s worth of memories.

When my grandmother was taken from me by the merciless bitch that is cancer, the sympathy of others had been almost too much to bear. By the time Samson sauntered into my life, and subsequently turned it upside down, I’d run out of patience for people and their pity. The faintest whiff of an “I’m sorry” would leave me snapping and snarling like a rabid dog. It hadn’t taken long for me to chase off what few friends I had, and even the prosecution attorneys quickly learned to limit their contact to only what was necessary to nail Samson’s ass to the wall.

“Sit down,” Holbrook urged, applying gentle pressure to my shoulders to steer me around the chair.

Waiting until I had settled into the chair, Santos nodded at Holbrook to close the door, cutting off the low murmur of voices filtering in from the hallway.

“We’ve come to believe that Reed is trying to send a message,” Santos began to explain, his words slow and thoughtful. “That he is–”

“They’re love notes,” I said, cutting him off. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I should have been concerned by how hollow and faraway my voice sounded.

“What?” they chorused.

“The messages from Samson. They’re love notes. Displays of his twisted affection,” I said, their faces bearing identical expressions of confusion. Growing frustrated when they didn’t grasp what I was saying, I added “He’s leaving the choicest pieces of the kill as offerings. He thinks he’s courting me.”

“But he tried to kill you,” Holbrook said, disgust and doubt warring on his face.

“And I survived. By some cruel hand of fate, I survived to become what he is. Maybe he thinks that means I’m strong, worthy of his attention, that we’re destined to be together. I don’t know. I don’t understand the twisted workings of his mind, and I don’t want to. Whatever the reason, he now thinks I’m a suitable mate, and he’s trying to express his intentions by leaving the most succulent, nourishing pieces of the kill for me.”

I hadn’t given much thought to it until that moment, but as the words poured from my lips in an unstoppable deluge they rang with truth. Surprisingly, the revelation didn’t make me sick or bring tears to my eyes. Instead an icy cold anger settled heavily in my gut, lending a new stiffness to my spine and the set of my jaw.

“Are you sure?” Santos asked, his face looking a little paler than before.

“Not a hundred percent, no,” I replied with a shrug. “But I’m pretty damned sure I’m right.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE HOLIDAY INN a few blocks from FBI headquarters wasn’t the Ritz by any means, but it was a hell of a lot better than The Knotty Pine. Dull winter sunlight filtered in through the glass ceiling of the hotel’s atrium, making the lobby appear as cold and dreary as the weather outside. God, how I missed my cabin with the fire blazing in the fireplace and Loki curled around my feet.

Here there was no checking-in at the wide front desk with its cheery but professional staff dressed in matching suits and ties. It was all business as Holbrook and our
Men in Black
entourage whisked me through the lobby to the elevators. We rode up to the fourteenth floor, my charming bodyguards Collins and Hill flanking me, Holbrook standing in front to my right. The elevator ride would have been silent if it weren’t for Loki deciding to serenade us all the way, his yowls of discontent growing louder by the second. He was starting to resent being crammed into the crate that, until now, had only been used when it was time for his annual shots.

I felt my bodyguards tense on either side of me, their stoic faces tightening almost imperceptibly as Loki’s outburst grew in volume and pitch. I caught Holbrook’s sly grin in the mirror doors of the elevator a moment before we stopped and the door slid open. He’d at least been acquainted with Loki’s vocal skills before.

“You’re in 1409,” Holbrook said fishing a plastic keycard out of his front pocket, drawing my eyes to the front of his slacks. “And I’m right next door in 1411,” he added, the hint of laughter in his voice drawing my gaze up to meet his. The corner of his mouth tilted up in the beginnings of a smirk, the skin around his eyes crinkling with silent laughter.

Busted
.

Heat suffused my cheeks, and I dropped my gaze to the scuffed toes of my boots. “Great,” I said, pushing past him into the room as soon as the little light on the lock flashed green.

“There’ll be agents in the room next door and stationed at the elevators and stairs. We have the floor to ourselves.”

“Sounds like a party,” I said, setting Loki’s carrier next to the bed by the window, opening the little metal door before he began to protest again.

Flopping down on the bed, I welcomed the weight of my furry companion as he climbed into my lap, rubbing his chin along the back of my hand until I acquiesced and scratched beneath his chin. Sinking down to his haunches a deep purr rumbled out from his chest, echoing through my abdomen.

Closing my eyes, I could, for a moment, almost forget the mess that my life had become. I could pretend that the endless noise of traffic on the street below was a flock of birds passing overhead, and the hum of the heater was the wind moving through the trees outside my bedroom window.

“Do you need anything?” Holbrook asked, the gentle tone of his voice tearing through my flimsy fantasy like a knife rending gossamer threads.

“A large pizza and a six-pack of beer,” I joked, cracking my eyes open just enough to watch him, the long hours of the last few days darkening the skin beneath his eyes, but doing little else to detract from his handsomeness.

“I’m on it,” he replied with a smile. “Buzz me if you need anything.”

Watching the door swing shut behind him I thought I’d be glad to finally be alone, the stress of the past few hours leaving my nerves frayed and my temper dangerously short. Yet as the echoes of the door slamming shut faded away I felt an emptiness in the center of my chest that hadn’t been there before. The scent of Holbrook’s earthy cologne lingered in the room like faded memories, not yet erased by the warm air pumping through the overhead vents. But there was a sense of something missing, as if his mere presence had filled the room, lending it warmth and light, and then fled with his departure.

“Man, I must be really tired,” I mused, rubbing my hands over my face in an attempt to wipe away my sudden sentimentality. In the span of just a few hours I’d gone from jilted lover to lovesick adolescent.

Figuring that a shower might help relieve the tension in my shoulders and the dull ache behind my eyes, I bounced up from the bed and grabbed my toiletry bag and some clean underwear. Shedding my clothes along the way I slipped into the bathroom, my toes curling against the cool tile floor, and felt the first layer of stress ease out of my shoulders at the sight of the glass encased shower.

Now this is what I’m talking about, I thought, eyeing the large showerhead appreciatively.

After fiddling with the faucets and showerhead to get the water almost blistering hot and the spray turned to the massage setting, I stepped into the shower and moaned in sheer delight. Hot water pummeled my skin, easing the knot of tension in the muscles across my shoulders, thickening the air around me until I could barely see my hands through the steam.

I’d considered upgrading my bathroom at home a few times over the years since I moved back, but had never been able to bring myself to tear it out. As ugly as the old mint green bathtub was, it held a lifetime of memories. It also held a horrendous ring of soap scum that I’d been meaning to attack for weeks.

Yeah, I’ll add that to my to-do list, right after “Survive maniac ex-boyfriend.”

Thirty minutes later, when my fingers resembled a bunch of prunes, I managed to pull myself away from the amazing shower, figuring that I should leave some hot water for the other hotel guests. Donning the fluffy white robe I’d found hanging in the closet, I wrapped a towel around my hair, and sprawled out on the bed. Turning on the TV I flipped through the limited range of channels before settling on a local station playing reruns of Big Bang Theory.

* * *

When I clawed my way back up to consciousness the sun had sunk down below the buildings across the street, the last rays of the day slanting into my room through the gossamer curtains, bathing me in gold. Yawning wide I stretched until a series of pops rippled down my spine, my back and shoulders feeling loose and liquid in a way they hadn’t in days. I almost felt as good as I did after shifting and letting the wolf run free.

To hell with the memories, I need one of those showers at home!

A curt knock on the door roused me as I hovered on the edge of slipping back into sleep. Getting up, I checked my reflection in the mirror above the writing desk across the room and frowned. At some point during my nap the towel around my hair had unraveled, leaving me sporting a tangled mess of dark curls. Not the best I’d ever looked, but by far not the worst either. Another knock at the door put a stop to my fretful primping, forcing me to shrug it off as a loss.

I padded on bare feet to the door, pausing to look through the little peephole, though from the smell wafting into the room from beneath the door, I already knew it was Holbrook. His familiar cologne mingled with the warm caramel scent of his skin invaded my senses along with the mouthwatering smell of pizza. My stomach growled loud enough for the entire hotel to hear in response to the scent of melted cheese and tomato sauce.

“Room service!” Holbrook said, beaming wide when I opened the door. Balancing the pizza box on one hand he held up a six-pack of Mountain Dew with the other.

“No beer?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Sorry, this is about as exciting as it gets while I’m on duty,” he replied with a shrug and lopsided smile.

Stepping back, I let him into the room, not sure what smelled more delicious – him or the pizza. Shooing Loki off the bed I snatched up the remote, my finger hovering over the mute button when Chrismer’s face appeared, dominating the screen.

“That’s right, Kelly,” she was saying, somehow managing to sound both cheerful and solemn at the same time. “Reports are coming in that there has been another werewolf attack. Law enforcement officials believe that Samson Reed, who recently escaped from the White Sands Supernatural Penitentiary, was the perpetrator of this horrific and senseless act.”

The hand holding the remote fell to my side as my jaw dropped open.

“What the...”

“The attack took place last night around ten p.m. just outside of Bailey. The FBI has not yet released the name of the victim,” Chrismer continued. “For those of you who have been following the latest developments since Reed’s escape it would appear that he is making a beeline for Denver. We can only assume that he is searching for his one surviving victim, Ms. Riley Cray.”

“Is this true? Was there another murder?” I demanded, rounding on Holbrook.

The guilty look on his face was answer enough.

“Fuck!”

I flung the remote across the room in a fit of rage. Striking the wall it broke apart, raining broken plastic and electronics down on the carpet. As quickly as the anger had risen, it faded away, leaving me hollow and fragile. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to think that it...” he said, trailing off.

“Think what? That it’s all my fault?” I asked as I sank down onto the edge of the bed, tears already tracking a hot path down my cheeks.

Setting the pizza and soda down on the dresser, Holbrook crouched in front of me and said, “It’s not your fault.” Grasping my chin he turned my face to look at him, his own full of conviction.

“It is,” I argued, pulling my chin out of his grasp and turning my face away. “Everyone knows that Chrismer’s right. He’s looking for me, and won’t stop until he finds me.”

“Chrismer’s an idiot. She wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit her in the ass.”

I couldn’t help laughing at that, gracing Holbrook with a weak smile.

“But it’s true,” I said, sobering.

“Riley, stop torturing yourself,” he sighed.

“I can’t,” I confessed in a whisper, focusing on the small scar on the underside of his chin, unable to meet his gaze.

“What can I do to make you believe me?” he asked.