“You were different,” he says. “You had no chance. But when your fear bled away, only you remained.”
“So you wanted me… because I yelled at you?”
“Yes,” he states. Like it’s a simple equation that makes perfect sense.
“You don’t even know me,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
But Jaeger hears. He has the sharpened senses of a predator. “I want to know you.”
I sigh.
“Let me know you,” he whispers, taking my chin between two fingers so I can’t escape his gaze.
Who is this man? He’s covered in tattoos and has a skull branded into his back. He kills without remorse. Yet he watches rom-coms and loves to cuddle, and he wants to know me.
“All right,” I say. I’ve decided on a test. “Take me somewhere tonight.”
He rolls to a sitting position, carrying me with him. “Anywhere.”
He says that now, but we’ll see how long it lasts.
A half-hour later, he pulls up to the location. I gave him the address with no explanation so he wouldn’t know where we were going until his Lykan purred up to the curb.
“A church?” he says, looking up at the cross affixed to the front of the modest brick building.
“What?” I taunt. “Are you worried you’re going to catch fire if you enter?”
He smirks and turns off the car. Once again, he’s illegally parked out front. It’s like he has no regard for any laws.
He comes around to open my door to lift me out. “I was raised by a man of the cloth, bunny. This place doesn’t scare me.”
“Wait, you were?” I’ve accused him of not knowing me, but I don’t know much about him, either. “Where did you grow up?”
“On the streets of New Rome,” he says so easily that I stiffen. “But not for Father Francis’s lack of trying.”
At my guidance, he carries me around the side of the building to the stairs leading to the basement where the Narcotics Anonymous meetings are held.
A trio of smokers stand off the path. They do double-takes at the sight of me and Jaeger, and I give them a wave. I’ve gotten so used to Jaeger carrying me that I barely notice the stares.
“Wait,” I ask as we enter the musty basement, passing more groups of chatting people to enter a long, low-ceilinged room filled with folding chairs. “Who is Father Francis?”
“A priest at St. Xavier’s downtown. He founded Hieronymus’ School for the Lost.”
I’ve heard of St. Xavier’s. It’s a medieval-looking church on the edge of midtown. Now that I think of it, I’ve heard of the school. It’s an orphanage.
“You and Kaiser went to St. Xavier’s?”
Jaeger finds us seats on the edge of the room. Most people have congregated by the entrance or the table in the back thatholds boxes of day-old sugar donuts and a coffee urn that dispenses black tar.
He’s positioned me so he’s between me and the door. He’s also constantly sweeping the place. He keeps a hand on my thigh, and I feel lucky he didn’t make me sit on his lap.
“Yes and no. We attended mass only on the coldest days. Father Francis founded a soup kitchen, and we started to bring in street kids, the ones too young to fend for themselves. That’s when the Father founded the school and raised the money to build the dormitories.”
I stare at him. I’ve sensed his upbringing was rough, but I had no idea it was this bad. “How old were you?”
He shrugs. “Nine or ten.”
I suck in a breath.So young.“Did you stay at the school?”
