It left a warm feeling in my chest, sitting there in the cozy atmosphere of the diner, watching Rona laugh with Mathilda. Happy and carefree and shining. Rona always shines in my eyes.
But now that our meal is done, I can’t conjure up a reason to stay out of our lair.
Shit. Not our lair. My lair.
Ugh. I don’t think I’ll win this battle.
My breath forms white clouds in the bitter morning air as we step into the parking lot. Rona walks beside me, her cheeks pink from the dining room's warmth, her new winter coat making soft rustling sounds as she moves. The mundane normalcy of the moment, coffee, conversation, her easy laughter still echoing in my ears. It all feels fragile and precious.
Too precious to last.
I scan the street with automatic vigilance as she happily chats away next to me. Main Street stretches before us, salt-covered sidewalks gleaming in the bright winter sunlight, snow piled in pristine drifts along the curbs. A few bundled townspeople hurry between shops, their footsteps crunching on the treated walkways.
Everything appears normal. Peaceful, even.
Then a gray van noses onto Main Street, moving slowly through the empty street. My eyes latch on to it, and every instinct in my body screams at me not to look away. It drives slowly, too slowly. I stare, frustrated not to see the driver. It’s still too far, but there’s something about that van that feels familiar. Familiar, but not in a good way.
“Get behind me.” I reach for Rona, who stops her chatter to look up at me. I don’t look back, though; my eyes are glued to that van. I see her opening her mouth from the corner of my eyes, but she closes it without arguing and follows my gesture to get behind my body. I’m so large, I cover her entirely from view.
And it’s just as well.
My entire body shifts into high alert as I recognize the driver through the windshield. It’s Gribble Nix. The same gnome reporter who'd been sniffing around the hotel fundraiser, looking for a story about the Quinn family. The same reporter who was first on-site at Rona’s apartment after the video was leaked.
What the fuck is he doing here? How did he know Rona is in Saltford Bay?
This cannot be a coincidence. Someone leaked her location to the vultures.
It’s only sheer luck that we’re right in front of Elga’s flower shop and she just flipped on the open sign.
"Inside," I say sharply. “Now.”
"What?" She blinks up at me, confusion replacing the contentment that had been lighting her features moments before. “Why?”
I don't explain. There's no time. The van is still half a block away, but Gribble's head is already turning, scanning the sidewalks with his sharp beady little eyes. He’s like a hyena, sniffing the air for easy prey. I steer Rona toward the door, and we slip inside to the cheerful welcome of the bells hanging above the door.
Elga looks up from behind the counter where she's arranging white roses in a tall vase, her eyes filling with glee as she recognizes us. That glee immediately deserts her face as she takes in my expression. Jennifer emerges from the back workroom, honey-brown hair catching the morning light streaming through the shop windows. It only takes the human a few seconds to register the mood, and she blinks, immediately alarmed.
"Darhg?" Elga's voice is full of concern. "What's wrong?"
"I need to use your back room," I say tersely, already guiding Rona deeper into the shop. "There’s no time to explain now, butthere’s a tabloid photographer outside. Gray van. He’s looking for Rona."
Understanding flashes across Elga's face, followed by determination. She sets down her roses and looks at Jennifer.
"Of course," she says. "Jennifer, eyes on the street. I've got this."
I guide Rona through the swinging door and into the small back room that doubles as their office and kitchenette, firmly placing Rona against the wall and away from the window. She glances at me, her blue eyes wide with fear, but she remains silent. It’s like she instinctively trusts me and that fact alone is enough to make me swallow back a growl.
If Rona trusts me to keep her safe, I will protect her with everything I have.
The bell chimes again, and I position myself where I can watch the shop but remain hidden. Through the back room's small window, I watch Gribble Nix enter the shop, his camera equipment jangling with every step, his pointed face split in an obsequious grin that makes me want to snarl.
"Good morning!" Elga's voice is bright and welcoming, the perfect picture of a friendly local shopkeeper. "How can I help you today?"
"Gribble Nix, freelance reporter forThe Sizzle," he announces, already pulling out his phone and what looks like a press credential. "I'm looking for someone, and I was hoping you might have seen her around town."
"Oh? How exciting!" Jennifer chimes in, her tone pleasantly curious, playing her role perfectly well. "Who might that be?"
Gribble Nix’s grin stretches as he puffs out his chest, his pointed ears turning a shade darker. He preens like a peacock, nodding his head to the two women like he’s doing them a favor by stepping into their shop.
