“I will,” I say, reaching for the doorknob.
Before I can make my final retreat, Dame grips my arm, stepping out into the hallway and pressing his forehead to mine.
If I were an ordinary wolf, the simple gesture might bring me some relief: peace or gratitude.
I’m not really sure because I’m not an ordinary wolf; I’m a Cross. So even as the pack bonds begin to hum with recognition and power passes from his wolf to mine, I only feel what I always feel—nothing.
“Get some sleep,” I say, patting him on the back. “We’re gonna need it.”
He nods, muttering one last thank you before ducking back into his room.
I collapse at my desk the moment my door shuts behind me.
Turns out staging a crime scene is exhausting. But I’ve barely unlaced my boots when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I ignore it for a while, choosing instead to stare at the blank ceiling. I’m hoping it might do something to clear the image of her bloody body from my mind. But really, all it does is leave it burned into my retinas.
A motherfucking love potion…
Thank fate it didn’t stick.
I take a deep breath, enjoying the odd fragrance drifting from my bed as I strip down to my boxers and crawl under the sheets. Her scent is especially strong here, unburdened by her clothing or the sweat from her dancing, and my dampener loosens with every inhale.
When I finally have the energy to look at my phone, there’s only one notification, from an anonymous sender with a single attachment.
It’s a shitty photo, taken from a distance, but the image is unmistakable if you’re familiar with the scene.
On the left side is Iris, sitting cross-legged in the grass. Beside her is a mangled shape that I know first-hand to be Oliver St. Grey. And, in case that wasn’t enough to make a point, in the middle, on their knees, holding Iris’s blood-soaked hands, is me, Elliot Cross.
“Fuck.”
Chapter5
Come Home. The Kids Miss You.
IRIS
I waketo the sound of the bell tower chiming and the midday sun streaming through my window. The bright light beams across my eyes, and I cringe as my temples throb.
Hells, I feel like I was run over.
Every part of me is brimming with pain. My eyes are puffy, the bump on my head is tender, and my legs feel practically boneless as I drag myself out of bed. Even my fingernails hurt.
I haven’t felt this awful since my first Fright Night, after which I swore I never would again. But it seems Oliver St. Grey has made a liar out of me.
Elsie isn’t home when I pad out into the living room. I only know that because there’s no hot water boiling on the stove and no music coming from under her bedroom door.
She takes her Sunday routine very seriously.
It usually involves yanking all the windows open at an unreasonable hour, cleaning every surface until her enchanted duster attempts to unionize, and blasting music until the sun sets.
She calls it her reset button. There are only two things known to keep her from it.
One: a visit from her mother.
Two: a man.
Seeing as how I don’t see Theresa Rosewater’s signature pumps by the door, I can only assume.
