“Did he create flowers too?”
“No. He did bowls and vases. All kinds of utilitarian type of items that people get all excited over.”
“So why flowers for you?”
Her delicate mouth curved into a slight frown. “I don’t know, actually. It’s just always been what I was driven to create.”
But obviously the flower held some meaning to her, because she had a tattoo on the back of her neck that damn near matched it.
His gaze scanned the shelf, noting the similarities in her work. “And it’s always the same type of flower? The same color?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s weird.”
“Nah, actually it’s pretty cool. I’m glad I had the chance to see this side of you.”
She made a barely audible harrumph, and the smile she flashed him was strained as she cleaned up her stuff and turned things off.
He had the feeling this wasn’t something she shared with many people—or even wanted anyone to know about. But he’d blown that secret out of the water when he’d busted into her garage today.
He’d come here early this morning prepared for her to be a bit standoffish, but not prepared for an ambush of half-assed traps on her property. Or for her to fire a fucking bullet at his head through the door.
Mother fucker.
He reached behind him and plucked what felt like a thin needle from his shoulder area. And maybe not all her traps had been quite half-assed.
“So you wanted coffee?” She arched a brow and walked past him. “Come on, let’s go.”
He followed her outside the garage, his shoes crunching on the fallen, frost-covered leaves.
“So, what the hell is up with Fort Knox-style lockdown on your place?”
“Just being cautious.” She shrugged and came up beside him as they crossed her lawn toward what looked to be the main house. “Sure didn’t seem to slow you down any, though.”
“I’m P.I.A. You should know better.”
“So it would seem. I’ll have to tweak a few things.”
Hmm. Any more tweaking and he might lose an arm next time.
She opened the door to her house and strode inside. “I know I said coffee, but I don’t drink the stuff. But I’ve got tea—hot or iced—and all kinds of fruit and yogurt for a smoothie.”
“Really? I haven’t had breakfast, and now that you mention it—”
“On second thought, don’t say smoothie because that’ll take far more energy than I’m willing to give you right now.”
He laughed softly. This was the girl he was familiar with, hard and sarcastic, not really that liberal with the warm and fuzzy.
“Tea is fine. Hot, please. It’s cold as fuck outside.”
“Well, that’s kind of a backward analogy, because one would think fucking would be hot, but okay. Have a seat.” She went to work filling up a kettle of water.
Darrius pulled out a chair at the round four-person table and sat down. He did a quick appraisal of the kitchen that was so tidy it almost seemed staged. Healthy food everywhere. Most of it fruit and veggies she could grab on the go.
And yet… He drew in a slow breath again and nodded. Maybe she had a small sweet tooth, because he’d bet his last paycheck she’d made oatmeal raisin cookies recently. Which was an image that didn’t really come naturally.
Agent Masterson seemed the type to be far more comfortable with a Glock on a firing range than with a Kitchen Aid making cookies. Maybe they were store bought.
“So how are you?”
She turned from her spot at the stove at his question and watched him. “What do you mean?”
“Come on now, the question isn’t exactly challenging.”
She didn’t even blink. “I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Masterson. We’re friends. I’m closer to you than any of the other guys on the team.”
The kettle began to whistle and she turned away again, busying herself preparing their tea. He watched in fascination at the little metal ball she scooped loose tea leaves into. No pre-made tea bags for this one.
“Hilliard, I’m friends with everyone. I try not to play favorites,” she murmured. “But really. I’m fine.”
Like hell she was. Despite her positive words and casual demeanor, he could sense the turmoil inside her. Smell the fear just below the surface. She should have realized that too, should’ve known he’d never believe the lie. But then, she seemed to be throwing the lies in his face like verbal roadblocks.
Maybe he’d be more inclined to believe them, or believe there was a hint of truth to them, if he hadn’t been there that night. Hadn’t held her in his arms when she’d been at death’s door.
The memory of it slipped into his thoughts, momentarily taking his breath away. She’d been so still. So pale. He’d heard her heart slowing. A few more days with that drug in her system and Grace Masterson would’ve had her name engraved in the memorial plaque at headquarters.
How the hell had she ended up involved in such a shady ordeal? It still blew his mind—the idea that shifters had willingly volunteered, accepted money, to be part of what could only be described as a horrific experiment to annihilate the species.
And Grace Masterson had been one of six to volunteer—though only five had come out alive, and it wasn’t the drug that had killed him, but another P.I.A. operative on their team who’d been protecting the woman who was now his mate.
“Here you are. One mug of tea for my uninvited guest.” She set a steaming mug in front of him. “Do you need cream? Sugar?”
When she moved to turn away, he caught her wrist, stopping her retreat. Her pale blue eyes widened and panic flickered in them.
“Thank you. The tea is fine as it is.” He stroked his thumb over the pulse in her delicate wrist, felt it pounding faster than it should’ve been. “But you’re not, Grace. You haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened a couple months ago. Or how the hell you even got involved in such a mess. Why don’t you try talking? Try talking to me.”
Darrius watched the myriad of emotions flicker across her face.
Shock, pain, rage and fear again. He could pretty much pinpoint each one, and likely why she felt it, especially the rage. People didn’t bring it up, didn’t dare talk about it. So how dare he?
He could see the question in her gaze, the sudden rigidness in her shoulders, and yet she didn’t pull away or try to remove his hand from her wrist. She seemed too stunned.
Everyone had been tiptoeing around the victims. Even though each one had been sent a request to be interviewed, none of them had agreed.
And what could they do? They couldn’t force it. The line was a bit finer with Grace, because she was a federal agent. What she’d done could impact her job, and the consequences of her actions had still yet to be seen.
The most messed up thing about it was the whole experiment had been legal.
Though they’d wanted to prosecute the bitch behind it all, she’d covered her ass by having the shifters sign a contract indicating they knew exactly what they were doing and the risks involved.
Thankfully the drug hadn’t worked, but instead whatever had been given to them caused them to shift almost continuously between wolf and human. It had nearly killed all the victims. Including Grace.
“I just don’t understand why you did it. Why you would willingly sign up for such a messed up thing?” He shook his head. “You’re a shifter, being part wolf is in your DNA. Why the hell would you sign up to be given a drug that tried to subdue that side of you?”
Grace flinched and he saw the flicker of agony in her gaze before it was gone.
“I’m not going to discuss this. Not now, now ever.” She glanced pointedly down at his fingers that restrained her, and then back at him. “Do you mind?”
He found himself reluctant to release her, which startled him into obeying her request. He liked the delicateness of her wrist. How soft her skin was. The smell of her lotion—
> What the fucking hell was wrong with him? She was an agent on his team, and he’d damn well better remember that.
Darrius pursed his lips and curled his hands around the mug in front of him instead.
“I apologize.”
“Thank you. I don’t like being touched.” She hesitated. “More so lately.”
And yet in the garage, right after she’d been ready to blow his head off, she’d seemed to melt into his arms, cling to him almost desperately. Unless he’d imagined that.
“I’m trying to be real with you,” he said with quiet determination. “Maybe the other guys will dance around with what happened. Maybe they’re fine ignoring you and just letting you bounce back when you’re ready, but I’m not willing to go that route.”
Her mouth tightened. “Well, doesn’t that make you an insensitive asshole.”
“So what if it does. I want you to talk about it. Otherwise I don’t think it’s going to happen.”
“You don’t think what’s going to happen?” Exasperation radiated through her words.
“Unless you start facing what happened, I don’t think you’re going to bounce back.”
Chapter Three
I don’t think you’re going to bounce back.
Agent Hilliard had no idea how close he was. Grace swallowed with difficulty. He wasn’t even trying for small talk now. Hilliard had sailed right over discretion and was plunging into the dirt she had no desire to dig up.
If he only knew. But of course he couldn’t, and likely never would discover why she’d willingly signed up to be experimented on like some laboratory rat.
She was proud of her shifter blood and would never have tried to rid herself of the ability to shift. Until she’d had no choice…
Talk to him? He couldn’t be serious. And yet one look at the resolve on his face and she knew he was. Jesus.
She hadn’t even spoken to the P.I.A. therapist, despite heavy pressure from her superiors to do so. From the first day she’d regained consciousness, Agent Larson, their commander and alpha, had encouraged her to seek help. Pleaded even.
She shook her head in silent denial to Hilliard’s request, but also to shake the hold he seemed to have over her with the intense plea in his dark gaze.
And when his strong, calloused fingers had held her wrist, she’d found her thoughts a bit foggy as well.
But it wasn’t fear. She wasn’t afraid of Agent Hilliard. Not today and never before on the job.
She’d lied to him a moment ago about not playing favorites. Darrius had always been her closest friend on the team. And though a tiny part of her desperately wanted to open up to him and have a meltdown worthy of a reality show, she knew it was far too dangerous.
And the danger extended beyond her well-being. She slid her gaze to the hall that led to the back of the house and where Aubree was likely watching television.
Grace moved back to the sink and gripped the counter, staring outside at the fog. Right now she needed to put physical distance between them. The idea of sitting down at the table, drinking tea and chatting about life as if it were all sunshine and roses just wasn’t going to happen. Some things needed to stay buried. The last two months being the perfect example.
“Grace, tell me why you signed up to be a part of those experiments.” His tone changed, became more urgent, as if he sensed she wanted to talk about it. “The guys think you must’ve had some kind of hunch about what was going on and you went in on your own undercover. Is that true?”
Undercover. If only it were something so heroic and brave. She swallowed the bitterness that formed a lump in her throat.
“It doesn’t matter why I did it. The fact is, I did do it.” She couldn’t help but add on a whisper, “And you guys have every right to be pissed off.”
“Grace, listen to me. No one is pissed off at you—what we are is damned concerned.”
Concerned? She didn’t deserve a shred of concern from them. Why were they so quick to give her the benefit of the doubt?
“Look, Hilliard, as much as I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, I’m just not ready to talk about it.” And she somehow doubted she’d ever be. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d just drop it.”
He sighed, not seeming to be taken aback by the sharpness of her words. “All right.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t need to talk to me. Yet. But you do need to give me one of your cookies.”
What the hell? “Say that again?”
“Oatmeal raisin, right?”
“How did you—”
“You bake them yourself?”
Her mouth worked, but no words came out. She could feel her cheeks warming. Talk about a change of attack.
“I don’t bake.”
“Maybe that’s what you want everyone to believe, but I smell cookies. Fresh. Not the packaged crap.”
Damn hypersensitive shifter senses. He was right. About her baking them, and about her not wanting anyone to know. Especially her fellow agents, who probably equated baking with dithering females who’d be better off tending the household.
The last thing she needed was any damn domestic, Betty Crocker-style jokes at the office.
“I ate the last one this morning, and for your information someone made the cookies for me.”
“Did they now?”
She didn’t answer because it was obvious he knew she was lying. He seemed really good at that. Knowing when she stretched the truth.
He gave a slow smile. “You didn’t eat them all.”
“Oh for God’s sake. Are you for real?” She let out a huff of air and moved to grab the plastic container on top of the fridge. She pried off the lid and then set the bin in front of them. “Take them all if you’d like.”
“Thanks. One’ll do.” He grabbed one of the palm-sized cookies and took a bite.
It distracted her for a moment, the way he closed his eyes and made a groan of approval. For a moment she saw Hilliard through the eyes of a P.I.A. groupie. Out of all the agents who could’ve had a fan club, Hilliard was the leading candidate.
Darrius Hilliard had that potent combination of looks and charm. His personality and humor was almost boyish, but his body was all man. He made her solid oak table and matching chairs seem frail with the way his tall, dark, muscled body was stationed around it.
“These are good.” He nodded and took another bite. “How come you never bring us some of these? The guys would love you.”
“Oh let’s see… Pretty much so I don’t have to deal with reactions like this. I’d rather be known for my ability to save your ass than bake cookies for it.”
“Damn good point.” He grinned and polished off the cookie. “I’ll keep your baking life a secret, but in exchange I’ll need you to keep one as well.”
“Sorry, I don’t do blackmail.” But the minute her glib words were out, she realized what complete bullshit they were and swallowed a bitter laugh. Clearly she wasn’t immune to blackmail, not if the stakes were high enough.
Hilliard leaned back in his chair and his expression became uncharacteristically somber. “Look, I didn’t show up here today just to get you to talk.”
A shiver of premonition raced through her. It wasn’t going to be good. Whatever it was. Still standing, her grip on the chair in front of her tightened.
“I never thought you did. So just tell me.”
His gaze didn’t waver from hers. “Thom Wilson is dead.”
She needed to sit down. Now. Desperately. Before she ended up in a heap on the floor. Or threw up on it.
Almost blindly, Grace sank down onto the wooden frame of the chair she gripped.
Thom was dead? No. Oh dear God. No.
She closed her eyes as images from not long ago flashed in her mind.
“We’ll get through this,” Thom vowed as he gripped her hand.
The cement walls seemed to be closing in on them. The floor beneath her was icy cold against her nearly naked skin. The smell of uri
ne and feces coated her nostrils. Some of the shifters couldn’t even control their bowel movements anymore, let alone their ability to shift.
Pretty soon she’d be just like them. They were about three injections ahead of her. It wouldn’t be long now.
She shook her head, fighting the desolation. The terror.
What the hell had she gotten herself into?
“They’re coming back for us. There will be another round of injections. Don’t you see it’s getting worse with every one?”
Thom cast a nervous glance at the other shifters. “Not necessarily. Everyone reacts differently.”
“Jesus, Thom. You know just as much as I do that it’s bullshit. We need to try and get out of here.” She glanced around, trying to figure out if there might be a way out of this holding cell. “They’re not going to let us go if we ask nicely. Not at this point.”
They’d been told it was for their own protection.
“We only have to finish out the week, Grace. Just a few more days! We committed to it. We’re getting paid a heck of a lot of money.”
She watched as the man across from her began to shift again. Fourth time in the last minute. She saw the anguish in his eyes as his mouth opened on a silent scream.
And then his body morphed. Skin retracted, claws came out, and his growl of pain shook the walls of the building.
“This is too high of a price to pay,” she said savagely. “I don’t even need the money.”
“But I do,” Thom pleaded and grabbed for her hand. “I can’t leave. I need money for college for my kids. Janie is heading off to UCLA in the fall. Shit, I have a mortgage I can’t afford. Don’t fuck this up. We’ll be okay, the contract promised it.”
Words on paper. That was all it came down to. Another shifter began vomiting against the wall.
Grace shook her head and whispered, “I don’t think so. In fact if we don’t get the hell out of here, some of us might not make it out at all.”
A loud, metal door slammed somewhere down the hall and dread coiled her muscles into heavy ropes.
It was too late. They’d already come back.
Savage Betrayal: Savage, Book 2 Page 2