by Everly Frost
Without missing a beat, he inclines his head sharply at Jace, who hesitates. He seems to think better of whatever he was going to say, finally responding to Tristan’s unspoken command by circling the vehicle. This time, Jace slides into the passenger seat, which I guess means Tristan will be in charge of driving them out of here.
Tristan steps toward me so fast that I flinch back against the SUV, hating my reflexes. All I want is to stand my ground in front of him and there I go, twitching like I’m afraid.
His hand darts out, sliding between the strands of my hair, catching them between his thumb and forefinger before he tucks the strands behind my ear. I have no doubt he just exposed the ugliness of the bruise that’s causing the pounding pain in my head. His fingers linger beside my neck, his fist clenching around my crimson locks.
“Don’t forget that you’re mine now, Tessa.”
I bite my lip before I scream at him to get fucked. It did me a fat lot of good screaming at Baxter Griffin earlier. The echo of my threats sounds hollow now. How can I ever hope to take revenge on Baxter for my father’s death?
Releasing my hair, Tristan’s arms suddenly wrap around my torso and waist, tugging me up against his chest and away from the vehicle. Heat spears through my body, making me gasp as I fight the power rolling off him. The sensation is such a mash of man and wolf that I can’t tell whether I’m inhaling Tristan’s scent or his wolf’s. Whichever it is, it makes me stiffen in his arms, my fight reflexes kicking in again.
As if he senses the danger, he acts quickly. Before I can retaliate, he takes a single step backward, pulls me with him, and deposits me back onto the ground.
He spins away from me before my fist can rise.
Striding toward the driver side door, he settles in behind the wheel and slams the door shut.
I stand my ground when Tristan starts the ignition and backs out in a squeal of tires so fast that the wind across the vehicle catches my hair.
Asshole.
He speeds the SUV toward the garage door, waits for it to open, and then drives out of the building without a backward glance.
I’m left standing in the empty parking space. I judge the distance between where I stand and the garage door, taking a second too long to decide whether or not to run for it.
It slides down again and blocks any escape.
The woman—Helen—hurries toward me. She appears to be in her forties. Her hair is dark ebony and pulled into a high, loose topknot. She’s dressed in a soft-looking sweater and tight jeans. Despite wearing barely any makeup, her skin appears flawless.
She’s carrying a blanket which—to my surprise—she wraps around my shoulders, drawing me into her side.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says, her voice unexpectedly soft and warm. “You’re safe with me. Let’s get you upstairs.”
I cast her a horrified glance, attempting to pull away from her.
Is she delusional?
Nowhere that Tristan Masters could leave me can possibly be safe. In fact, I should probably be grateful that I encountered Tristan Masters and lived to tell the tale. For now, that is.
As if she reads my mind—now that my hair isn’t in the way, I guess the horror on my face is unmissable—she says, “This is a safehouse—a place of refuge. Tristan may control this city, but he doesn’t run this house. I do. You have nothing to fear from me or anyone else who lives here.”
Damn. It’s impossible to doubt the sincerity in her eyes. The blanket is soft and her scent is disarming. I try to sense whether she has power—whether she’s human or something else—but I come up blank. I’m not getting any glow from her at all. She draws me toward the elevator, pressing the button for the twentieth floor once we’re inside it.
I frown, nearly laugh, but it would be a hysterical sound, so I shut my mouth. This house does not have twenty floors.
“Tristan told me what happened to your father,” Helen says, making me stiffen. “I’m so sorry, Tessa. Your dad was a good man.”
I jolt away from her, clutching the blanket around myself, pulling it with me like a safety net. I haven’t fully processed my father’s death yet. Haven’t allowed myself to cry. Refuse to truly believe that he’s gone.
In my mind, he’s running through the forest right now.
I choke back a sob. I’m the one who’s delusional now.
But if I accept for one small second that my father’s gone, I’ll break down. I can’t do that here. Not yet. I need a safe place to scream. If it takes me hours or days to find that place, then that’s how long I’ll wait. I’ll compartmentalize my grief until then to keep it under control, the same way I compartmentalize pain. The same way my wolf is a mindless energy. It exists. But it has no soul, no heart, and no impact on my life until I let it.
“What the hell do you know about my dad?” I ask.
“I know that—” She stops and takes a small breath, pressing her lips together before she sighs. “What I know isn’t important. What’s important right now is that we take care of your wounds and get you some food and water.”
I’m in desperate need of both and if she’s offering, I won’t fight her. “What is this place?” I ask, still on edge.
“We call it ‘Hidden House.’” She smiles. “It’s a safehouse for those in need. It’s not like most homes.”
Before I can ask her for more information, the elevator door slides open to reveal a warmly lit entrance room with a couple of fabric armchairs in it. A corridor leads off to the right.
“Follow me this way, please,” Helen says, waiting for me to exit the elevator before she gestures to the right toward a large room situated off the corridor.
It’s also warmly lit, but it’s dimmer than the entrance room. The window on the opposite side doesn’t have any curtains, so I can see the city lights in the distance, as if we truly did rise twenty floors. The room contains a single medical examination table while the walls are lined with cupboards with opaque doors.
There are only two other objects in the room. One is a wand. The other is a book.
Both float midair in front of the window.
I pull up short. Wait a minute…
“You’re a witch,” I say, peering at Helen’s silhouette, hoping to see a spark or hint of a glow that will confirm my suspicion. “You’re hiding your power from me.” My mind works quickly. “Like you protected your conversation with Tristan from me when we first arrived.”
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m a witch.” Helen meets my wary gaze with a nod as she glides into the room. “And a damn good one. My magic ensures that the true nature of this entire house and its grounds is hidden from the outside world. Only a trusted few can come and go from here at will.”
I narrow my eyes at her with suspicion. Jace drove the SUV straight inside without stopping or asking permission.
My question is scathing. “Tristan Masters is one of those trusted few?”
Helen makes a humming sound in the back of her throat. “I understand why you might find that hard to believe, given his reputation and the circumstances under which he brought you here. But, please, sit.”
The door closes quietly behind me as soon as I step fully into the room and walk toward the examination table. Helen is already striding toward the book and wand, which float toward her at the same speed so that they meet in the middle. She plucks the wand out of the air but allows the book to continue to float beside her.
I prepare myself for more unexpected occurrences as I clutch the blanket and sink onto the edge of the examination table, intending to perch on it.
Sitting on it is like falling through cotton wool and ending up on the floor.
My stomach lurches, my reflexes trigger, and my hands shoot out to clutch the edge of the table. The blanket falls from my shoulders in the process. I didn’t actually move, but it felt like I fell through space.
Helen spins and races back to me, the book flying with her so it ends up floating close by as she leans toward me.
&n
bsp; She searches my face, lowering her wand. “I’m sorry, Tessa. Are you okay?”
The room stops spinning, and I can finally feel the solid examination table beneath my backside. “What was that?”
“This table has a number of spells woven into it. They’re meant to be undetectable. You shouldn’t have felt them. The table amplifies my power and helps me understand your wounds. Sort of like an x-ray machine. I had it calibrated for a—” She bites her lip.
“A shifter?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my tongue. “Except that I’m not a typical shifter, am I?”
“I’ll know more soon,” she says. “You shouldn’t experience that falling sensation again.”
“Great.” I eye her warily as she pulls a bottle of water from one of the cupboards and brings it to me.
While I drink the entire bottle, she consults her book, pursing her lips as she flips through it until she settles on a page that appears mostly blank.
She clears her throat as she approaches me and raises her wand. I flinch when she reaches for my face, but my reaction doesn’t stop her from sliding her fingers through my hair. Drawing my tresses back, she exposes my face and all the ugliness of the bruises across my temple, neck, and shoulder.
“With your permission, I need to see all of your wounds before I can treat you. Will you remove your shirt, please?”
Reluctantly, I peel off my torn flannel shirt, leaving myself dressed only in my broken bra. Scrunching my dirty shirt in my fists like an object of comfort, I try to ignore Helen’s reactions.
She blinks at all of the bruises both old and new spreading across both sides of my torso before she zeros back in on my face. For a second, her eyes go blank, as if she’s accessing her power—maybe the power in the table, the book, the wand, or all three.
Refocusing, she busies herself around me, apparently deciding that my head wound needs treating first.
For the next half an hour, she works on my injuries, muttering spells while her wand glides around me and the lamplight makes me increasingly sleepy. When she touches me, her hands are gentle, feather-light, and soothing. Every now and then, she goes to the cupboard and pulls out random-shaped bandages and solutions in bottles that she places or smears on my skin. One of the solutions smells like pineapples. Another like pink candy. She tells me that the bandages are waterproof and won’t wash off in the shower.
I suspect that she’s using magic to keep me calm and soothe my pain while she works. It’s possible that I should fight it, but I don’t want to. Feeling numb is a welcome relief.
Helen talks to herself as she works, cataloguing my wounds. When the book tips in my direction, I catch sight of writing forming across the paper… multiple rib contusions… clavicle intact… fracture in right radius approximately four years old… multiple breaks in metacarpal of both left and right hands…
Helen is far more clinical in her descriptions of the old fractures in my arms and hands than I was expecting.
“Why are you writing all of that down?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I don’t want to miss anything,” she says. “Sometimes the most life-threatening wound is not the visually obvious one.”
I can’t help my angry laugh. “My most life-threatening characteristic seems to be my scent, since it made one alpha-in-training go off the rails and another decide that I’m worth keeping alive to use against his enemies.”
Helen pulls back a little, her voice soft. “One of the reasons Tristan brought you to me is because I can teach you to control your scent.”
My eyes widen. “I can control it?”
She nods, her gray eyes softening. “But it will take time and a lot of practice.”
I try to hide my surprise, but I’m already working through what it means that Tristan left me with someone who has the skill to teach me to control this thing that could get me killed. I don’t for a second believe he left me here for my own good.
The more I think about it, something doesn’t add up. My father told me that only the strongest alphas would react to my scent. True to his prediction, only Cody and Tristan responded to me with anything other than abhorrence. So how does Tristan intend to use me against all of the other alphas and shifters—assuming they’re the ‘enemies’ he was referring to?
Helen continues to study me. “I can teach you to both diminish and magnify your scent,” she says.
And… there it is. Magnifying my impact on other shifters is what Tristan really wants. He told me that when he was done with me, there would only be one thing any male shifter would want from me. I guess sex really is power.
“Then that’s why Tristan brought me to this safehouse, isn’t it? He wants me to use my scent at will,” I say. “Or rather, he will make me use my scent at his will.”
Helen sighs. “He brought you here to keep you safe, but not only from others.”
I snort. “Safe? Don’t expect me to believe he cares whether or not I’m safe.” Then I scowl at her as I consider what else she said. “What do you mean—not only from others?”
“Until you can control your scent, Tristan can’t remain in your presence. This is the only place where you’re safe from him.”
I glare back at Helen. “Tristan doesn’t care whether or not he hurts me.”
“Believe what you will.” She steps around the table to focus on my back. Sweeping my hair aside, she runs her fingers down my spine, one vertebra at a time. I assume she’s now cataloguing all of the wounds I’ve sustained to my back and spine during my life.
I was sure she’d stop after she tended to my face and arms.
“What are you going to do with all of my medical history?” I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I’ve already accelerated the healing process for your new wounds. I’m assuming you’re now pain-free?”
At my nod, she continues. “Over the next month, I’m going to start the healing process on your old wounds—but this, too, will take time. Mending old breaks always takes longer.”
“I don’t need your help with those,” I snap. “I’m already healed.”
She rounds the table again, places both her hands on my shoulders, and pins me in her calm gaze. Somehow, she challenges my assertion with the gentlest of questions. “Are you?”
I try to look away but can’t.
The wounds from the past aren’t even close to healed. Maybe the bones have knitted back together, but the hurt is raw. All the derision and pain I suffered seems pointless now. I sustained all of these wounds in the pursuit of hiding my wolf.
Now, in the space of an evening, my wolf is exposed. I’m exposed. Word will spread and I have no doubt that soon, the entire shifter community will hear about my wolf’s strange form and energy.
But the more immediate pain is the chasm that’s forming inside my heart because the only person who ever cared about me died tonight while trying to protect me.
“Dad’s gone,” I whisper, tears burning behind my eyes.
I fight them, refusing to let them form and fall.
“There’s nothing I can say to lessen the pain of losing your father, Tessa, but please know that Hidden House is a safe place to feel whatever you need to feel. However long you need to feel it.”
“Ha.” I bark a sarcastic laugh. “However long that is before Tristan comes back for me.”
Helen’s eyes gleam. “He won’t set foot here until I tell him you’ve learned control. And I don’t have to tell him a damn thing until you’re ready.” She gives me a sudden and unexpected smile. “Like I said, Tristan doesn’t run this house. I do.”
I blink at her in surprise. “You’d do that for me?”
She exhales softly, her lips forming a gentle line. “Tristan has good reasons to come for you, Tessa. Reasons he’ll have to explain himself. But I will do everything I can to help you while you’re here.”
“What reasons could possibly explain his intentions toward me?”
Her only answer is the sudden compression of her lips, w
hich indicates she isn’t going to elaborate.
Only time will prove whether or not she’s telling the truth about keeping me safe.
Helen returns to my back, spending another half an hour working around me. Once she’s finished, she places her wand in a holder at her waist. Then she takes a clean shirt from the cupboard and hands it to me.
“I’ll find you some new clothes, but this will have to do for now,” she says. “Come with me. I’ll show you to your room.”
Pulling on the soft, gray T-shirt, I follow Helen down the corridor, uncertain what awaits me next.
Chapter Six
Instead of an elevator, I find a set of stairs at the end of the corridor.
“Wait…” I backpedal with a confused frown. “What happened to the elevator?”
Helen gives me a smile. “The elevator is the only way to access the garage, which is the only exit from Hidden House. You won’t see it again until it’s time to leave. Come on.”
She takes a few steps down the stairs before pausing and reaching her hand out for me to follow her.
I eye her warily, my defenses rising again. She said that she controls this house, but I didn’t imagine she meant she changes its form at will. A damn good witch, huh?
Refusing her hand, I follow her reluctantly, watching my step as we turn the corner at the landing. Another softly-lit room comes into view at the base of the stairs.
“Hidden House has many floors,” Helen explains as we descend. “Some floors contain sleeping quarters. Others have workout rooms. There’s also a garden on one. The staircase will learn your routines so that a single flight of stairs should lead you to whichever floor you need to access at any given time.”
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, she tips her head to the side. “There’s a bit of an art to it, though, especially at first. I apologize in advance if you have to climb two flights of stairs a few times until the house becomes accustomed to your needs.”
The room we enter at the bottom of the stairs is homely and welcoming. One entire wall is filled floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves full of books. Multiple lounge chairs appear well-used with soft rugs and cushions scattered across them. A wide window on the far side reveals the city lights, indicating that we’re still quite high up.
