Wicked

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  "Really? Wow. Okay. The other two?"

  "You sure you want to hear this?"

  I arched a brow.

  "Miles was adopted.'

  "No shit," I whispered. "I'm sorry, but Miles, a halfling? He has the personality of a decade old piece of wallpaper."

  A small smile hovered at the edges of his lips. "I don't think his personality disqualifies him."

  "Still. I can't imagine it being him. And he's the second in command. How could they allow one to ascend to that kind of position?"

  "Simply because they didn't know." Reaching over, he curled one finger around mine, stopping me from tugging on the loose string of the hem. "Sometimes I think it would just make things easier if the entire Order knew that halflings existed, knew what could happen if the prince or princess got a hold of one, but then . . . that kind of knowledge could be destructive."

  At first I wanted to argue that point because knowledge was power; it was also a source of safety. But as I watched him drag his finger along my knuckles, it occurred to me why he thought it would be destructive. "You're right," I whispered, stomach roiling. "If everyone knew, it would be a witch hunt. Innocent people would get caught up in it. As soon as someone did anything weird, and all of us are totally capable of some weird shit, they'd be suspected. Guilty until proven innocent."

  "Exactly."

  "Who else here are you looking into?" To me, Miles was absolutely out of the question. Perhaps my reasoning wasn't the most logical, but I couldn't fathom that, and I didn't know anyone else who was adopted only because that was an uber personal question to just randomly spring on people.

  His brows furrowed as he tapped each of my knuckles. "The Elite is still pulling research on the rest who might . . . fit the description."

  "In other words, you don't want to tell me who else it could be."

  He lifted his gaze to mine. "It's nothing personal. I'm just not going to put thoughts in your head that might not need to be there."

  "I don't know anyone else who's been adopted," I persisted.

  Several seconds passed. "I don't like the idea of keeping you in the dark, but like I said, I'm not going to put shit in your head that might not need to be there."

  Annoyed, I started to pull my hand away from him, but I held myself still as his finger followed a bone up my hand, to my wrist. Behind the irritation was apprehension. Obviously there was something he wasn't telling me, but there was a reason other than him not wanting to put shit in my head. Could it be that I was close to whomever he— and the Elite—suspected? Immediately, my thoughts went to Val, but I dismissed them. She hadn't been adopted, and both her parents were alive and still active within the Order.

  "When you find the person . . . you're going to kill them, aren't you?" I asked.

  Several seconds passed then he leaned back, his fingers trailing off my hand. Taking a drink of his beer, he nodded. "That's part of my job, Ivy."

  A shudder danced across my shoulders. Although I killed fae every night I hunted, to me killing a human—half fae or not—wasn't the same thing. "I've never killed a human."

  His gaze flicked to mine but he didn't respond, because deep down, I knew that he had. A lot of Order members had. Not because they wanted to. Sometimes it was a human who'd been fed on too long, like the woman in the Quarter the other day. Other times it was someone who knew about the fae and worked alongside them. Or it was an innocent person who got caught in the crossfire. I knew that sometimes it couldn't be helped.

  "David says that makes me weak," I added quietly.

  The emerald hue brightened as he said earnestly, "That does not make you weak, Ivy. Not at all. And be glad that you've never had that kind of blood on your hands, and I hope you never do. It may be our duty—my duty—but it's not something I look forward to. It's not . . ." He looked away, a muscle thrumming along his jaw. "It's not something I'm entirely okay with. Not even when they're halflings."

  All too easily I recalled the solemn expression that had been carved into his features when the man died in the Quarter. I didn't know what to say to him because I didn't know what it was like to kill someone whose only crime was their mixed heritage, and I wasn't even sure if I was okay with that. How could I be? If what Ren said was true, most of them, if not all of them, had no idea what they were. On the other hand, I understood the risk they posed. Conflicted, I tried to sort out what I thought. The only thing I did know was that what Ren said was true—he wasn't okay with it. Instinct told me that.

  I studied the hard set of his jaw, the straight and proud nose, the flat line of his lips that were usually curved in a teasing smile. "Can't you leave the Elite?"

  He coughed out a dry laugh. "You could leave the Order, but you can't leave the Elite. They'd never trust us with the knowledge we hold. I was born into this." His gaze found mine once more, and the shadows I'd seen in his eyes before had only increased. "And I'll die in this."

  My chest tightened with those words. I didn't like to hear him say that—didn't want to hear him say anything like that. I inhaled, but the air got stuck in my throat, lodged up against the bitter ball of panic.

  I closed my eyes.

  God, I was so dumb. I'd allowed Ren to get under my skin, just like I had let Val in, and I knew better. Was I some kind of sadist? Hell. Why couldn't I be the fun kind of sadist, enjoying bondage or some freaky stuff like that?

  "You are handling this well—better than I thought."

  When I pried my eyes open, he wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the bottle of beer he held, at the label he'd almost peeled off. "Maybe I'll freak out later. I don't know. This was a lot of info to swallow."

  "It is," he agreed pensively, and I hated that tone—and I hated that I cared enough to feel that way. "We still have to figure out the gates," he added, finishing off his beer. Leaning forward, he dropped his feet on the floor and placed the bottle on the coffee table. "Do you think she was actually telling us where the gates were, in her own way?"

  "I think so." Running my hand down my face, I sighed wearily. "Something about the last thing she said, about no spirits or people being able to rest there? It sounds familiar. I can talk to Jerome. He's lived here his whole life. He might know of a few places we could check out."

  "Sounds good. Bring him cake." He flashed a quick grin. "Butter him up. But save me a slice."

  A reluctant smile appeared. "I still don't know if you can have any of my cake."

  "Babe, I'm gonna get a piece of it, all right?"

  I laughed, shaking my head. "So cocky."

  The grin stayed on his lips for a few more seconds before slowly fading, and then it was gone, like it had never been there. Curled up against the arm of the couch, I let everything he told me sink in. My thoughts whirled from one direction to the next. I couldn't help but obsess over how much David was aware of. Did he know that Miles was adopted, a potential halfling? Did he know anything about the halflings in general, and if he did, was he prepared? He had to be.

  Ren tipped his head back against the couch. "I let my best friend die."

  Startled, I blinked. "What?"

  Exhaling harshly, he stared at the blank TV screen across from where we sat. "My best friend—his name was Noah Cobb. We grew up together, always around each other. Hell, we were like brothers. Getting into trouble, staying out of it. If you saw one of us, you saw the other shortly afterward."

  A sick feeling descended upon me. "What happened to him?"

  Ren's jaw flexed as he stared straight ahead. "He was a fluke. Raised in the Order, both his parents were alive, and they were happy, you know? Never would've even suspected anything. His father hadn't stepped out on his mother. It wasn't like that. From what we gathered later, Noah came into the picture around the same time his father met his wife. It was a one night stand, and they'd hidden what he was very well. After . . . after what happened, we learned that the fae his father slept with brought Noah to him. The fae know what a halfling can do, but they can't raise a ch
ild that has mortal blood. They don't have the compassion or the humanity it takes to not neglect a child, for it to even survive a week. Anyway, the woman his father married accepted Noah as one of her own. They had no idea what being a halfling meant."

  An ache lit up my chest as I listened to him. Human compassion—his father's love and his wife's acceptance had saved the boy, but I knew where this was heading, and although I wanted to hope for a different outcome, I knew it wouldn't change how this story ended.

  "Noah was . . . God, he was a good guy and would've made one hell of an Order member. Loyal to the fucking core, and I . . ." A harsh laugh thundered out of him. "He even knew what I was being trained to do. Shit. I wasn't supposed to tell him, but man, there were no secrets between us, and I was so damn proud back then. I thought I was special." His lips curled into a mockery of a smile. "The way we found out was a fucking accident. My fault really. I brought the thorn stake out."

  Shoulders tensed, he rubbed his hand along his chest, over his heart. "My parents lived just outside the city on several acres of land. They had the targets set up and we'd practice knife throwing. That kind of shit. He was over at my house, and we were in our backyard screwing around. My dad was there. So was another member of the Elite—Kyle Clare." His tone was tight, edged in bitterness. "My dad had no idea I had the thorn stake out there, and I let Noah pick it up. Nicked himself. Just a tiny cut, but that's all that was needed. I saw it. So did my father and Kyle."

  My chest constricted, ached from what he was telling me. Out of all the loss I'd experienced, I had no idea what I'd do if I learned that my best friend, someone like Val, was what I was being trained to hunt—to kill.

  "He knew," Ren said, his voice hoarse. "Noah knew when he saw his blood bubble, because I'd told him. He looked at me, as if he was sorry. I'll never forget that look." He cut himself off, clearing his throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden burn of tears. "I was shocked. I didn't do a damn thing as I stared at him. My dad saw it, so did Kyle. They . . . pretended not to notice, but I knew they did. Noah left, and I just . . . I just stood there in that damn backyard."

  "Oh God," I whispered.

  "Kyle? He left then too, and a part of me deep down knew why he was leaving. This whole time a halfling had been right under our noses. It takes years sometimes to get info on potential targets." Drawing in a shuddering breath, he shook his head. "When I snapped out of it, I tried to go after them. I was going to go after them. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I couldn't just stand there. My father stopped me, and . . . Noah never made it home. I never saw him again."

  "Oh, Ren, I'm so sorry." My voice was thick. "I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry."

  He nodded, but guilt chewed out his next words. "To this day, I think about all the things I could've done differently. Like if I hadn't told him about the Elite, then I would've never had that stake out there with him. He never would've cut himself, and well, shit would be a lot different."

  "Wait. What happened to him wasn't your fault."

  "I knew better."

  "How old were you when this happened? Sixteen? We didn't know jack shit at sixteen, Ren. What happened wasn't your fault."

  "I didn't stop them from killing Noah."

  "But you tried," I reasoned.

  His heavy, tortured gaze swung in my direction. "Did I try hard enough? I'm not sure. And was I even supposed to try? I grew up knowing halflings had to be dealt with. There's no gray area there."

  "No matter what, it wasn't something you did or didn't do. His death wasn't your fault." I reached over, wrapping my fingers around his forearm. "God knows, I understand what that kind of guilt feels like."

  A flicker of understanding crossed his features. "You do?"

  Realizing what I'd admitted, I quickly forged on. The last thing Ren needed to hear was how I actually was the cause of three people dying. "You don't need to carry that kind of guilt around, Ren. What happened was terrible, and there are a lot of things that could've been done differently, but I doubt it would've changed the outcome." I paused, wondering when was the last time I sounded so mature. "It's not your fault, Ren."

  He searched my face carefully, and then he placed his hand over mine. "I don't ever want to be in that situation again."

  My heart squeezed, forcing out a promise I knew I couldn't back up and had no control over. "You won't."

  Ren was quiet for a moment, his stare locked onto mine with an intensity that caused my breath to quicken, and then he moved. Closing the distance between us, he kissed me.

  The brush of his lips was the last thing I was expecting, but the sweet, almost shy way he did so snagged me. I opened to him, and his other hand settled at the nape of my neck. I kissed him back, still feeling a little out of my element when it came to doing this, but after a few moments, I wasn't thinking about whether or not I was doing it correctly. I wasn't capable of a lot of thought when all I could taste was him.

  My heart rate sped up as he tugged me toward him. Sliding his hands to my upper arms, he lifted me onto his lap, my knees settling on either side of his hips. Never once did he break contact with my mouth, and well, that took talent.

  I shouldn't be allowing this, but I was trembling and I wanted so much more. Every time he touched me, and with every brush of his lips, I was dragged under a little deeper, but I couldn't make myself stop. I was starved for this contact, the red-hot sting of pleasure and the breathless bliss that awaited.

  I was starved for him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ren needed it—needed me. I could feel it in the way his hand trembled as he slid it over my hips to squeeze my bottom, and in the fierceness with which he kissed me. His hand gripped the back of my neck again, holding me in place, but I wasn't going anywhere. Behind the heat in his stare was such sadness it tugged at my heart, and I wanted to erase it, to take it away. I wanted to bring back that teasing, smiling Ren who excited and infuriated me.

  I skimmed my hands down his chest, wrapping my fingers under the hem of his worn shirt. I tugged up and Ren pulled back. A moment passed and he asked, "What do you want, Ivy?"

  My breaths were coming out fast and shallow. "Ren . . ."

  He didn't respond. His eyes were a heated shade of green as he cupped my cheeks, smoothing his thumbs along my jaw as he tilted his head, kissing me once more. Our kisses were deep, slow, and it left me shaking and wanting so much more.

  Pulling on his shirt again, I exposed a glimpse of his lower stomach. "I want to take your shirt off."

  A semblance of a grin appeared. "Who am I to argue with that?"

  As Ren lifted his arms, I took off his shirt, letting it fall beside us on the couch as I rocked back, getting my first really good look at Ren. He was . . . utterly breathtaking. His pecs were hard and his stomach a series of tight ridges that begged for me to touch and explore them. There was a faint trail of dark hair that started under his navel and disappeared below the band of his pants, but it was the sprawling artwork that encompassed his entire right arm and shoulder, the right pec and down the side of his body that blew my mind.

  I knew what the tattoo was now, and I wanted to cry and lick every square inch of it. The vines were inked into his skin, forming endless knots, and those vines twisted together over his chest, where blood red poppies formed. There were dozens of them, up and down the side of his body, and mixed among the flowers were letters—a phrase that brought tears to my eyes.

  Lest We Forget.

  The flowers were a symbol of remembrance, of never forgetting a loved one. I knew those flowers were for his friend, and there was something incredibly honorable about the homage he paid with his body.

  Dipping my head, I kissed the one above his heart. My gaze flipped to his when he sucked in a sharp breath. "That tattoo . . . it's beautiful. Does it go down your back?"

  He nodded, and I glanced down, running my fingers over the vines, and then I saw that the tattoo bled into three interlocking circles next to
his hip, over the lickable indent. "We're marked in the same place."

  "I know."

  Of course he'd seen it, and I guessed that was why he touched it then. A shudder worked its way through his large body as I trailed my fingers over the vines.

  "May I?" Ren caught the edge of my shirt, and with a deep breath, I nodded. He pulled my shirt off, easing my arms out of it. I had no idea where the shirt ended up. His lips parted. "You're beautiful, Ivy."

  The way he said it made me feel beautiful—the way he spoke made me feel like a goddess even though my bra was white with yellow daisies on it. Really. I did own sexier stuff. But his hands traveled from my hips, over my stomach, to my breasts. The feeling he left in their wake was a bit frightening and exhilarating. He cradled my breast, his thumb smoothing over the top, teasing the hardening tip through my bra. A moan rushed out of me, and his eyes burned a deep forest green.

  "I like the way you look at me," he said, his lips brushing mine. "But do you know what else I like more?"