Really, Fran? Really?
He lowers his voice and holds my gaze. “Aye, lassie, especially when they have to do with Clan safety.” I feel like this is an admission of sorts, like he’s letting me in on a little secret, and a part of me thrills at that.
His eyes are a crystal blue, stark and piercing beneath those heavy dark brows of his. I never noticed before, but he’s got a scar above his left eye, a silvery thin line, right across his eyebrow. It makes him look hot and dangerous. My hot, dangerous keeper.
“What was the meeting about?” I ask, totally pushing my luck. “Or if you tell me, do you have to kill me or something?”
He gives me a sidelong look that’s somewhat amused. “You don’t want to swim with the fishes?”
Oh, God. Oh God, I didn’t.
I said that, didn’t I?
“I was a little… erm, addled,” I say. “Damn meds.”
He cracks another smile. “I noticed.”
Mother of God, I wish I’d literally died crashing into that fiercely unyielding tree.
“So confiding in me what the meeting was about is fish swimming territory?”
He snorts. “We don’t really have fish swimming territory.” He pauses. “Here you are.”
He gestures to a white door, and I look at it in surprise. Oh, right. I have to use the toilet, apparently.
I don’t believe him about the fish swimming territory. Like, I know that we’re not exactly near an ocean up here in the mountains, so perhaps they have another euphemism they use, but I have zero doubt in my mind that they do wicked, violent things.
I’ve known them for years. I’ve observed them from afar. I know it’s not my imagination.
I hobble into the toilet, and he admonishes me from behind, his voice a harsh whisper because the whole house still sleeps. “Careful, lassie. Take it slow, no sudden movements.”
I want to take it slow alright, with him, me riding him, that’s what I want to take slow.
Wow, so do pain meds turn you on, too? Turn me on? Because I am totally turned on.
I do my business, carefully and slowly like he said, not because he told me but because it’s the sensible thing to do, then I wash my hands.
God, it’s nice in here. This little toilet on the main floor’s no more than a powder room, and it’s still nicer than literally anything else I’ve ever had. The ivory counters gleam, and there’s a large, oval-shaped mirror rimmed with a gold edge. The soap pump is chrome and glass, and when I pump some into my hand it smells divine. I’ve never been to a high-end hotel, but this is exactly what I imagine it to be.
Everything about the Cowen family home is beautiful and elegant without being ostentatious. I take in every detail, with every chance that I get. It’s part of my job.
From where I’m standing, I can see out a little, hexagonal window that overlooks the snowy mountaintops. Moonlight reflects on the white snow outside the window, casting a fairy-dust glow on everything around us. It’s gorgeous.
I sigh and turn to leave. I’m suddenly dizzy, and the world around me spins. I’m on my knees, my hands braced on the tiledfloor. I close my eyes, trying to get my head to stop spinning. Without thinking, I place my forehead on my knees, and the blood rushes to my head.
The door smashes open, and I’m aware that Tate’s in the tiny room with me, his large, massive hulk awkward in this small, confined space. He bends to one knee.
“What happened?”
“Don’t know,” I whisper, nausea sweeping through me at the lightheaded feeling that comes and goes like tidal waves. “Did my thing, looked out the window, next thing I knew the world was spinning and here I was.” I shake my head. I hate the feeling of being out of control.
“C’mere,” he says, taking me by the elbow. “We have to get you back to bed. Doctor said you’d have symptoms like this. Happens with head trauma.”
I get to my feet with his help, hating that I have to rely on him, hating that he sees me as dependent and helpless. But I can’t dwell on it long, for my only real concern right now is getting back to the makeshift bed they’ve made for me.
We walk down the hall, and he’s half-carrying me. I grip his arm tightly, and he’s got one firm hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the yellowish glow of light by the open door.
We hear voices, and they’re close. Men’s voices, deep and harsh. I know the family well enough to quickly identify them. Leith, the eldest Cowen son and leader, and their father, Bram Cowen.
