After over two hours of conversation and three glasses of wine, Adalyn and I parted ways. Niall wasn’t home. I imagined he was at the bunker with the others or seducing a female somewhere in Beaver Creek.
I tried to phone Nate for news, but he didn’t answer so I texted Nash instead.
After a few minutes, he messaged me back:Coming home now. Bea’s okay. Nate’s staying with her tonight. He told me to tell you not to worry.
Yeah. Like that could ever happen.
Heart tapping out a sullen rhythm, I wound my hair up and snapped a coiled plastic band around it, then retrieved my tablet, brewed myself a cup of herbal tea, and sat at our kitchen nook to rework my superhero’s face.
It wasn’t that I particularly wanted to work, but my brain was way too wired for sleep. As I painted and repainted the man’s jawline until I’d thinned it out so it wouldn’t resemble Liam’s, there was a knock on the door.
Frowning, I walked over and drew it open.
At the sight of my sweatpants-and-black-tee wearing visitor, I leaned against the grainy wood and crossed my arms. “Your house is six doors down.”
Liam’s knotted eyebrows broke apart in . . . surprise? “I’m not lost, Nicole. I’m just—Can I—Can we talk?” He sounded a little lost.
The air was heavy with the smell of smoke, but not the sweet scent of charred wood. No, the odor was musky and sulfurous, like burnt hair. Like burnt flesh. The smell of a body transformed into ash.
“Niall’s not here, Liam,” I said slowly, still not sure whyhewas.
“I’m aware.”
“Storm neither.”
“I’m not here for my son.” Liam nodded to my living room. “Can I come in?”
“Why?”
He blinked. “You’re really going to make me stand out here to explain my reason for dropping by?”
“I am.” I got more comfortable against the door, pulse lashing at my veins even though for all I knew this wasn’t a friendlyI’m sorry for having barked at youvisit. I shrugged a shoulder. “You’re a shifter. Can’t catch cold.”
A drizzle of snowflakes spiraled on the black air and drifted over Liam, caught on the thick frame of lashes lining his weary eyes.
“So . . . why are you standing outside my door in the middle of the night, Kolane?”
His jaw pulsed. “How’s your arm?”
“You came to check on my arm?”
“Yes.”
I extended it and rotated it. “All good. How’s the hand?”
He turned it palm up. The bubbly red mess had turned into patches of skin that shone like melted plastic.
I gripped my elbows. “Anything else I can help you with, because I’ve got a date in twenty, and I know some people think three’s an orgy but I think three’s a crowd.”
His hand arced back to his side. “A date?”
“You know. Hanging with a person who enjoys my companyandproximity.”
One of his eyes twitched. “Who?”
“Simon.”
“Jenkins? Your dad’s friend? He’s fifty-something.”
