“Did I hurt you?” Rourke was racking up all kinds of expressions and this one was a twofer—confusion mixed with dismay.
“Yeah, but it’s already healing. Just aches a bit.” She held the item up to the exterior light mounted above them. “What do you think it is? Rourke?”
His troubled gaze hadn’t left her arm.
Driven to ease his worry, she said, “It’s not like you meant to.”
“That’s just it. I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled before spinning away.
Whatever that meant. She rushed behind his tall form, noting how his tapered waist transformed into a powerful stride she struggled to keep up with.
How could she feel like this? He’d had her in his grip, his strength obvious. Her reaction? Irritation he’d taken the trinket. Nowhere near the fear her dream gave her. It was like Rourke and her dream male were two different vampires.
“It’s a pick from a lock pick kit.” He lifted his palm, a silent demand for her to give him back their find.
When she didn’t, he glowered at her.
He didn’t break stride and neither did she, though she took two steps for his every one. “Say the magic word.”
Your ornery nature will get you into trouble. Her dad’s words floated through her mind. Make it a strength, not a weakness.
Wonder what her dad would consider it now, poking the beast like she was.
Rourke’s hand snapped shut and dropped to his side. She fought a grin over her completely inconsequential victory.
“Do you think it’s a clue?”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No.”
“Bullshit.”
It happened so quick, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Is that your favorite word?”
“When I’m being lied to, yes.”
“What makes you think I lie?”
“Duh, I can sense it.”
There it was again. Confusion mixed with dismay.
“Do others not sense it so easily?” she asked.
“No.” The finality of his tone said that was all she was going to get.
He abruptly turned into an office. Grace had to backtrack to follow him in.
An older female sat at a desk inside. Her scent was vampire and by the looks of her she must be centuries old. Her serene presence and the wisdom in her eyes, with her white hair and patterned dress to her ankles, instantly comforted Grace. If she could to pick someone to cradle her while she cried for days, this female topped the list.
Grace ached to close herself into a dark room and let loose the pain and loss balled tightly inside of her.
“Betty.” The warmth in Rourke’s voice startled Grace. “Has Demetrius returned?”
Grace pulled her attention from her coiled emotion to assess her situation. Swanky office, Rourke’s deferent tone, and Betty the assistant. Demetrius must be the big vampire on campus.
“He and Lady Callista are still briefing the TriSpecies Synod. I expect them back soon.” Betty’s mouth quirked, and she shot Rourke a knowing look. “But Master doesn’t always tell me right away, not when he’s with his young bride.”
Rourke cleared his throat as if he was a chaste male and the talk of sex disconcerted him.
Betty paused, glancing back and forth between him and Grace. “I shall summon you when he arrives. Perhaps I can ready a room for our guest?”
“You’re not a housekeeper any longer, Betty. I’ll leave him a message. Grace is assisting with a case. I’ll arrange her lodging.”
“I see.” Betty’s gaze darted between them. She dipped her head toward Grace. “Please, let me know if you need anything.”
Rourke thanked her and ushered Grace out of the office.
“She was sweet,” Grace whispered. An old vampire like Betty would either have stellar hearing or hardly any.
“She’s something.” He refused to meet her gaze.
“I love her mix of old world manners and highly inappropriate comments.”
“Blame the premium cable Demetrius splurged on for the place. Betty’s addicted.”
Grace smiled, albeit a sad one. She hiccupped back a sob, determined to hold her personal anguish in. He flinched at the sound, but he remained silent for the long trek to a plain door. He punched rapidly into a key pad and the door slid open.
In front of Grace lay the most utilitarian environment she’d ever seen. Used to throw pillows, vibrant colors, and a homey feel, the space greeting her was cold, gray, and barren. A stainless steel kitchen with bare counters sat across from the door. One couch rested at the edge of the main area while the dining room was devoid of any furniture.
She wandered in. “Do you keep an empty apartment for guests?”
“This is where I live.”
Her eyebrows shot up. Perhaps the room paralleled him, with hidden depth. Then it dawned on her. “I’m staying here with you?”
“I can’t let you roam freely.” His tone was devoid of emotion. By now, she suspected he did it purposely.
Her mouth worked, but no words came out. Sleep? In his place? While he was there?
He was the reason for her sleepless days, but her instincts screamed he wasn’t the enemy. Her recurrent nightmares featuring Rourke weren’t a coincidence. She’d resolved to get close, find out the truth behind both of her families’ death. Was the depth of her sorrow lessening the fear she should have of Rourke? Was it because with no mother or father to spend her evenings with, and with no Nathaniel to confide in, her social circle was now comprised of a goliath who’d showed her an ounce of kindness, a lovely elderly female, and a male she shouldn’t trust?
Blinking rapidly, she tried to recall all the reasons she swore not to break down around him—again.
Oh damn. Bring on the water works. She frantically searched for privacy.
Hellfire. She was crying again.
He barely made out her asking where the bathroom was.
“Down the hall to the left.”
She scurried away, looking adorable in her sweatshirt and denim. He’d never had a female in his suite. Not even the females on his team, Zoey and Ophelia. Betty stuck to her suite or her office, and the only other females around were Demetrius’ mate and his sister who never left her room.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about Grace being here. He didn’t feel, there should be nothing to question. Regardless, she couldn’t go to her house. They still needed to search it. More than a little animosity oozed from her toward him when he sensed none toward Bishop or Betty. It was an unfair comparison. They were the two most likable vampires in the building. Or that he knew, period.
Grace’s sobs echoed from the bathroom. She’d sought privacy. He wouldn’t bother her, even if she still held the lock pick she’d found at the site. Allowing her to assist had turned out be an advantage. He’d missed it in his search, so had the Guardians and Bishop. The bodies and scents lingering at the scene had stolen their focus.
His eyes landed on the bathroom door. What must it be like to mourn a family? To have cared about them enough to feel sad when something bad befell them. If he could hunt the rest of his kin down and terminate them, he would. To do so would be to confess everything they’d put him through, and that was his own private hell. His parents’ existence was no more. His brother had slunk back to the dank sewers they’d originated from, and Rourke had fallen in with a worthy male. The way Demetrius championed the innocent called to Rourke deeply.
Except when one of the innocent was sobbing in his apartment. He scowled when he realized his front door hung open. Grace intruded on all of his best judgement. Take now, when ideas of knocking on the door and asking if she was okay invaded his mind. He didn’t do that shit. After he unhooked his sexual partners—their bodies covered in delicious red marks, quivering from pain so defined their nerves had confused it with pleasure—he walked away. Clean up was their issue.
Grace wasn’t his sexual partner. He groaned. A force akin to being kneed in the sac ricocheted through his body at the tho
ught of her not being his. He was an eighty-four-year-old male. Why the hell did it seem like puberty was sneaking up on him again? What next? Was his voice going to crack?
Silently, he walked past the bathroom. Water splashed; he heard her rummaging around for a washcloth. He’d just met her but knew it’d only take minutes before she composed herself and strode out like she owned the place.
In his bedroom, he didn’t bother switching on the light. Digging through a cabinet, he located his stash of lock picking mechanisms. Some vampires knitted, at least Betty did, but his hobby was making sure he could get out of any restraints he might find himself in again.
When a family sells their boy as a blood slave, it leaves a guy with need to know he can escape anything. He combined his lock picking talent with sex by restraining his partners and releasing them without using a key—after he was done with them. He got practice and sexual release, both without being bound himself. His partners never complained.
However, one of his partners had stolen from him. Rourke opened one lock pick kit, saw all the pieces were present, dropped it and chose another. In the third kit, one piece was missing. Grace held it in her pocket.
He’d known it was his as soon as he laid eyes on it. He brought the kit to his nose, inhaling deeply, letting his memories sort through the last time he’d used it and with whom. An answer sprang to mind.
Grace exited the bathroom, her soft pads heading back out to the main area. Rourke dropped the kit and closed the drawer, following her out.
She was looking around, searching for him. He could see her brain work as she studied his stark living environment.
“I’m not much of a decorator, I’m afraid.”
She jumped and spun around, her hand on her heart. “Good god, Rourke. Give a girl warning.”
Again, he marveled at her ability to recover her composure. Quite an ability for a girl raised by humans, but then, a family who adopted a vampire baby wasn’t ordinary. Rourke planned to discover how they’d been in the right place at the right time to save Grace.
“You can take the couch for the night.” He frowned.
She’d curl up on his couch while he tucked into his pillow-top king-sized mattress, the one luxury he granted himself after years of sleeping on a frigid dirt floor. Her on the couch, him in his bed. Wrong on more than one level. He’d offer his bed, but he couldn’t. Just, no. Her in bed with him, maybe.
No. No one got that much access to him. Never again.
“That’s fine.” She blew out a breath like she was relieved and stepped around the kitchen counter. “Can I grab something to eat before I lay down? I think my stomach would feel better with something on it.”
Of course. A real gentleman would at least offer a glass of water to a young girl who’d been through some serious trauma. Especially if he was making her sleep on the couch.
He was born in the gutter, and one foot remained in it at all times. A tether not even he could undo.
“Help yourself. There’s food in the fridge. Glasses in the cupboard.”
“As they usually are. Not one for entertaining, huh?” Her struggle to keep the conversation light was palpable.
“I entertain nothing.” Except fantasies of his family’s tiny hovel burning to the ground while he held the smoking match. Only, someone else had beat him to it.
She laughed softly, her voice hoarse from her crying session. “I, for one, am shocked, Rourke. This place screams party city.”
The corners of his mouth pulled down. His apartment was bare, necessary only to eat and sleep in. Was she teasing him?
“Relax, I’m giving you shit.” She gave him a sad smile that didn’t reach her red, puffy eyes. She busied herself filling glasses and pulling food out of the fridge. “I’m trying to keep my mind off everything, or I’ll be locked in your bathroom all night. Well, it looks like we have water, wine and cold roast. Have you ever heard of vegetables?”
Why would he waste his time? “I haven’t met a vegetable with the decent amount of blood.”
An exasperated, forlorn sigh slipped out of her. “You’re totally not what I thought you’d be.”
Rourke cocked his head at the question. “What does that mean?”
She paused briefly before resuming meal prep. “You weren’t exactly cracking jokes when we first met.”
His senses prickled. She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t forthcoming. He hadn’t met her before tonight. He’d remember her. She slid a plate across the counter and set a glass of wine down. Since Grace stood on the kitchen side of his counter where he normally stood when he ate, he planted himself across from her and remained standing. There was a barstool, but he never cared for lingering over food.
Grace sliced a chunk of roast beef and slid it between her lips. He eyes followed the fork, lingering on her mouth. She caught him and feathered her fingers around her lips, searching the counter.
“Do you have a napkin?”
He’d allow her to assume that was why he’d been staring. A female eating shouldn’t be fascinating; he shouldn’t be enthralled.
“In the drawer to your left.” He sawed through his roast. The patience it required was always a challenge in self-discipline. To this day, decades after his captivity, each meal was a test in not shoveling food into his mouth by hand. Using utensils, even a plate, was a conscious decision every minute he ate.
Rourke didn’t hide from his past. Acknowledging the atrocities he had survived prevented him from retreating into a shell of himself. Yes, he ate meals with others, but they weren’t from his private food supply. Not if he could help it. Sharing his food with Grace was only another test.
Grace pulled out a black cloth napkin and dabbed at her mouth before taking a sip of wine. She continued tackling her roast, and he continued watching the fork slide through those lush pink lips.
Suddenly, sharing his food mattered less, not when he could do it with her.
“Oh, before I forget.” She reached into her pocket and drew out the lock pick. “You’ll find more out about this than I can.”
How correct she was. Rourke deftly accepted the pick, avoiding skin contact.
She drained her wine and set her dishes by the sink. “I need to lie down.”
Rourke waited until she exited the kitchen before he placed his dishes next to hers. Two sets of dirty flatware and glasses. A first for his pad.
He passed through the living room. Grace stared down at his couch. The reality of spending the night with a female under his roof dawned on Rourke. His strides quickened until he entered his bedroom and closed the door to block her presence out.
If his gut wasn’t telling him she was so damn important to the case, he would’ve had Betty set up a guest room on the opposite end of headquarters.
A knock on the door snapped him around. He swore. Now she surprised him in his own home. Perhaps he should bypass Betty and set Grace up in another area himself.
“What?” he snarled.
“Dude, sorry.” Her flippant tone suggested he no longer intimidated her the way he had earlier. He was both pleased and vexed by that. “Can I get a blanket and a pillow?”
Of course. Another hospitality fail. From his closet, he chose a fleece blanket riddled with penguins Zoey had thought was a hilarious gift for each member of the team and a knitted midnight blue throw—Betty’s attempt at adding color into his life. He had no extra pillows. The only choice was one from the stack on his bed.
He held the blankets and glared at the innocent pillow. Once she used it, he doubted he could add it back to his collection.
She waited patiently. He opened the door and thrust the pile into her arms. Before she said her thanks, he shut the door.
“Thanks,” she called extra loudly.
Another almost-smile twitched his lips. The girl had attitude if nothing else.
Chapter Three
Bishop shucked the shovel back into the Otto’s car. Dawn was approaching and he still had to take the car to get
it crushed.
Digging a grave for three adult bodies should’ve depleted his energy sources, but his restless spirit had been cooped up too long. That demon bitch called for him day and night, but tonight she’d been blessedly quiet, allowing him to actually be a functioning member of his team instead of expending energy ignoring her summons.
He didn’t even know her name, didn’t know who to curse. Only knew she had inhabited some poor human woman’s body and used it to seduce him into binding himself to her. No idea what her bidding was, but he didn’t intend to cross paths with her to find out. At least their bond didn’t turn him into a puppet.
Her siren call in a throaty voice full of sexual promise was damn hard to resist. His determination to keep his distance might wither him into a pile of bones, but he’d do it. Like many, his demon probably assumed his physical size meant he lacked in mental capacity.
He checked his phone to see if his contact had gotten his message to meet him at the scrapyard. Nothing yet.
As he drove back to Freemont, his thoughts returned to the family he’d put in the ground. The poor girl. Grace. She exuded innocence, and he’d left her at Rourke’s mercy. His buddy would never hurt her—physically. Rourke only inflicted pain on willing participants, but with a delicate bird like Grace, he didn’t possess the empathy or tact to properly deal with her.
Bishop hoped the girl had the ability to handle her grief solo because there’d be no assistance from Rourke. In fact, Bishop would ensure he became Rourke’s wingman on the investigation into the human family. Not just out of curiosity about a human family who willingly raised a vampire child, but because Grace brought out his brotherly urges. Feelings he only had for his team, and Demetrius’ mate, Calli. His family.
Perhaps it was because Grace had lost her family, the pain fresh in her eyes, and he knew exactly how she felt.
Checking his phone again, he swore. No reply. He had two hours, max, before he needed to protect himself from daylight. His powerful prime vampire DNA could withstand the early morning rays of the sun. He’d give it more time. Bishop found a diner on the edge of town and pulled in.
Rourke (New Vampire Disorder Book 2) Page 3
