Rick shook his head, refusing to let her gaze go.“I know you can, Reg, but you’ve a lump on your head the size of a tennis ball, scratches on your arms and neck that look like they’re from an animal of some sort and your eyes look like you’ve been to hell and back.And whoever this bloke is, he looks about twenty minutes away from death, babbles on in a language I don’t understand and seems to have a bullet wound in his side.”He rounded the table, smoothing his palms up her arms and staring hard into her eyes.“I’m sorry, babe,” he said, voice soft with worry.“But I don’t believe you.I want answers.I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Something you’d never hope to understand, pup.”
Declan’s low growl spun both their heads around, and Regan gasped, watching the man sit up and swing his legs around, plant his bare feet on the floor and stand up, his eyes cold with deadly rage, the plastic tube only moments ago in his throat now crushed in his clenched fist.
“Declan!”Regan began.
“Hey!”Rick shouted, stumbling backward a step.“You can’t do that!”
“Watch me,” Declan snarled, glaring at the stunned vet.Muscles coiled, he took one step.Another.Another.
And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the cold, tile floor.Still.
Rick raised his eyebrows.“Guess I was right,” he murmured.
Lifting her gaze from the sight of Declan laying motionless on the bed and covered only by a thin cotton sheet, Regan studied her surroundings.Rick used the spare room in his apartment as an office-cum-storage room.Stacks of thick veterinarian journals covered the small desk under the only window in the room—as well as the floor and side tables—surrounded by folders of paperwork, cardboard boxes, a neat pile of unironed laundry and a weight bench complete with cobwebs.
She shook her head, a wry smile playing over her lips.Rick to a tee.Solid, dependable and a touch messy.Organized to the outside world, organized disorder within.
Returning her attention to Declan, she chewed on her bottom lip.The Irishman on the other hand, was the embodiment of chaos, in little under a day turning her life upside down and inside out, turning it into a roller coaster of emotions and events she’d never forget or recover from.So different to Rick it made her head ache.She gently brushed a few strands of black hair from Declan’s forehead, noting his temperature seemed back to normal.
Normal?Whatisnormal for a werewolf?
Regan pulled a face.She didn’t have a bloody clue.Not yet.But she would.Eventually.
She let her gaze move down his bare torso, forcing herself to focus, not on the lean perfection of his body, but on the freshly dressed wounds scattered over his frame and the stitched incision on his side.It had taken Rick about fifteen minutes to find the bullet embedded in Declan.Another twenty-five to remove it and clean up the lacerated mess it had left.The x-ray he’d taken of Declan’s mid-section before the operation had bleached his face of color and his normally laughing, brown eyes had turned almost cold.For a moment Regan thought he wasn’t going to help her, especially when she refused to explain what Rick most obviously saw—a skeletal and muscular structure not entirely human—but after a long look both regretful and irritated, he’d begun slicing into Declan’s flesh with steady hands.Doing what he did best—tending to an animal needing his care.
Regan released a sigh.Was it enough?
Rick wouldn’t tell her.But he’d agreed to take Declan back to his apartment after the surgery, depositing him on the clean, spare bed with gentle care.He’d said nothing to her before he left, just gave her another long sad look as he’d closed the door behind him, leaving her and the still-sedated Declan alone.
Regan sighed again, threading her fingers through Declan’s limp ones.
What next?
Ring Pete?Her parents?
If she did, was she putting them in danger too?Was her brother already in danger?What would she do if Declan didn’t survive?How would her heart handle it?
She closed her eyes.Too many questions and not enough answers.
A dry snort escaped her and she shook her head slightly.At least she now knew how Rick?—
Declan’s fingers clamped down on hers and she snapped open her eyes.“Where’s my sister, you flea-ridden fucker?”he snarled, staring up at her with wild and glassy eyes.
“Declan.”She tried to remove her hand from his crushing grip, keeping her voice calm and her actions smooth.Her heart thumped.Bloody hell, he looked savage.And lost.“It’s Regan.You’re going to be okay.”
“Where’s Maggie?” he roared, body arcing as he tried to lunge upward.“What have you done with?—”
He slumped backward abruptly, lids fluttering closed, body limp once again.
Regan sucked in a sharp breath, staring, waiting, her fingers free of Declan’s grip, her throat tight.Dear God.What should she do now?
Peter slammed his cell to his ear, his heart leaping into frantic flight.“Thomas.”
He studied Yolanda from the corner of his eye.She sat silent in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing traffic, gnawing on her bottom lip as if the troubles of the whole world weighed down on her.Silence had stretched between them since they’d left the crash.She hadn’t uttered a sound.Hadn’t even looked at him.
“Peter?”
