“No, but how do you know for sure?”
“Don’t take my word for it.” He raises his eyebrows, crosses his arms over his chest, and takes a step back. He runs his heated gaze over every inch of me. “By all means, keep stripping off clothes.”
Heat blasts my skin. I swallow hard and lift my chin. “You first.”
“I’m not the one worried about brandings.” He holds out his arms. “I know exactly where all of mine are.”
Someone branded him? They’re not tattoos. “Is that why they seem to move and shift?”
“You really can see that?” he asks.
I nod quickly.
His hands fist at his sides. For a moment I think he’s done, but then he exhales, rough and uneven. “The Rider knows you now. That’s all you need to understand tonight.” He turns and continues walking. “Are you hungry?”
“Not for food,” I grumble, hurrying to catch up to him. “Is there anything to eat?” I ask loud enough for him to actually hear me.
“Not a lot but I keep some basics here.”
By “basics” he means a few boxes of cereal and not much else. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is massive. Dated, though. I sit at a round table to stay out of Declan’s way. He sets a family-sized box of cornflakes on the table. “It might be a little stale.” He hands me a bowl and spoon. “But the milk’s unopened and in date.”
“Thanks for checking.” I pour a generous helping of cereal into my bowl and give the milk a sniff before pouring it over my cornflakes.
Declan joins me a few seconds later and we crunch on our cereal together in easy silence. Still, I can’t help the thrill of being alone with him swirling in my chest.
“So, you never bring people here?” I ask when I’m finished.
He lifts his gaze. “Not since my mother died.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my lap. “I’m sorry. I…I lost my mom too a few years back.”
He scowls at his cereal bowl. “I know.”
“What? How?”
“Nosy reporter asking me questions? I looked you up.”
I swallow hard. “And you found out about my mom…how?”
“Obituary mentioned you.”
Wow. Okay. Why am I surprised? It’s not like I’m the only one who knows how to use Google.
“What else did you learn?”
“You’re a good writer.” He sets his spoon down and folds his arms over his chest. “You seem like a smart woman. Why’d you move from serious news to podcasting ghost tales.”
“I don’t have a podcast,” I grumble, swirling my spoon in my leftover milk which I am absolutely not going to slurp out of the bowl in front of Declan. “I have a YouTube channel. They’re very different things.”
“Are they though?” he says with a head tilt and an edge of sarcasm.
“Are you going to tell me why you dragged me here?” I hold up my wrist again. “And what the hell this is?”
He stares me straight in the eyes. “Let’s see if we make it through the night first.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Declan
