Haphazardly parking my bike in the first open spot I find, I barely remember to turn it off before clambering off and running toward her building.
Yes, I know which building she lives in. No, she’s never invited me over or shown me. And no, I don’t even feel the slightest bit guilty when it could save her life.
The rest of the guys are hot on my heels as we race to find her.
I take the rickety steps two at a time and sprint toward her door. My stomach sinks when I see the door already open a fraction.
Although it kills me to pause, I need to be smart about this. I hold my breath and listen for any sounds coming from her apartment, so I know what I’m walking into. When I don’t hear anything, I cautiously push open the door, prepared to beat the shit out of anyone I see other than Lark.
Whether for better or worse, I don’t spot anyone when I enter the apartment. Other than a very, very dead dude.
“Holy shit,” I breathe when I see the mangled corpse splayed out on a formerly white rug. Someone did a fucking number on the guy. If I couldn’t smell that he was a shifter of some sort, I’d think he was a fae, with the way his head is removed and heart missing.
While I see a lot of blood and gore, I don’t see Lark anywhere. Thankfully, I can smell that none of the blood or tissue is hers, but that doesn’t ease my mind that much. Not when I’m prettysure I see her riding clothes shredded and strewn around the room.
Hopefully her gear is in pieces because she shifted—not because someone tore them off her. My creature beats against my skull, trying to get out at that thought.
Taking a breath, I shove that and all the other worries down. I don’t know anything for sure right now, so it makes no sense to make myself sick over something that may or may not have happened.
“Lark?” I call. “Are you here?”
Please, gods, let her be here and unharmed.
I don’t get any response, other than a small whimper coming from behind the gray sofa shoved against one wall. Relief floods me because I can tell it came from Lark. But it’s quickly replaced by worry that she’s hurt.
Cautiously approaching the couch and walking around it, I see Lark huddled in a ball, a green blanket wrapped around her shoulders. I can’t see much of her, but what I can see on her hands and face is spotted with blood that thankfully isn’t hers.
“Oh, baby,” I whisper. “What happened?”
While I know she hears me, she doesn’t look up at me or do anything other than shrink farther into herself at my approach.
It’s clear that she was here when the guy was murdered and is at least a little traumatized by it. I don’t blame her. That’s a hell of a way for the average shifter to die. I can’t help but wonder who he was, but that can wait.
Shoving the sofa out of the way, I get on my knees and scoot toward her. When she flinches at the movement, I pause, my heart cracking a little. “I’m not going to hurt you, Lark. Not now and not ever. Please don’t be scared.”
“You came,” she croaks after a long moment. Her voice is rough and scratchy, like she hasn’t had anything to drink in days.
“Of course I came, wild girl. You call, and I’ll come running. Whether it’s because you need a chocolate bar, a friend, or help with a big problem. I’ll always be there.” I keep my voice soft and soothing, not wanting to rattle her any further. “Do you think you could tell me what happened?”
“I killed him,” she whimpers.
My eyebrows practically bounce up to my hairline. I’m impressed that she did all that damage herself. “Good job, wild girl,” I praise.
While I don’t know her as well as I want to, I do know she’s not the type to kill without a reason. For her to kill someone at all, let alone like this, he must’ve done something awful. It makes me wish I could resurrect him and kill him myself. After a little torture, of course.
Her head jerks up in surprise at my reaction, like she expected a different response. She understands that part of our business is… less than legal. Lark shouldn’t be surprised that I’m not condemning her killing someone.
But even when her head snaps up, she’s very careful to keep her eyes closed and her face tilted down toward the floor.
I’m starting to worry that something happened to her eyes or face with how she’s refusing to look at me. As gently as I can, I ask, “Can you look at me, baby? Show me those pretty green eyes of yours?”
She shakes her head before I’m even finished. “No. I can’t get them to change back.”
I tilt my head as I try to figure out what she means. “What do you need to change back?”
“My eyes.”
“Why do you need them to change back?”
