He gave her a hug, then gazed up at David. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, and then Phillip finally nodded, as though there was some meaningful, silent exchange.
And then her father left.
When Melissa turned away from the open front door, she saw him, a shadow in the corner of the foyer, his brown eyes watching the scene intently. He hadn’t been there at the time, but he was there, inside her memory, replaying it for her again and again. There was something predatory about his gaze that suggested his name was more than just something handed down to him at birth, but more a characteristic of his personality.
Damn pyro jerk. Just for that, she’d cast an elemental spell and had made it snow in his cell for the rest of the night. He was still shivering when she’d tossed him his sandwich at lunchtime.
Melissa looked away from the mirror and grabbed the hand towel hanging from a loop attached to the wall. She dabbed her face dry, her teeth clenched, that last image of her father storming off into the night haunting her. Neither she nor Dave had seen him since. She wasn’t going to cry. Not again. She’d wasted too many tears, remembering that night.
She fluffed her hair, pasted a fake smile on her face, then turned to the door that led out to her store. She had a client coming in to pick up a hex pouch, and another one due for an extremely diluted solution of wolfsbane. It wasn’t enough to kill a lycan, but it was enough to make the man’s abusive werewolf wife feel poorly enough to leave him alone.
Her hand rested on the doorknob. That night memories of her father weren’t the only dreams she was having. She frowned. She’d have to do something about her prisoner. She didn’t want these dreams, didn’t want these painful memories resurfacing at his whim, not hers. She didn’t think she could let him go, though. Who knew what chaos he would wreak on the unsuspecting and vulnerable if let out. He showed no real remorse for his actions, no consideration for others, but continued to push his own agenda. She wasn’t allowed to kill him, but she had wanted to teach him a lesson. Her shoulders sagged. Perhaps he was unredeemable.
Right now, though, she was too tired to care.
Straightening her shoulders, she swept into her store, a fake smile on her face as she greeted her customers.
A while later, after the two customers had left, she was almost deliriously happy to shut her front door, swinging the sign to Closed. She switched the light off over the display window and rubbed the back of her neck as she walked down the aisle toward the internal door that opened near the stairs that led to her apartment.
A furious tapping on the door at the front of the store had her turning, her brows dipping as the tapping became thumping. She walked back toward the store entrance, then started running when she caught a good look at one person propped up against her store window and another person struggling to keep him up. Melissa unlocked the door, and Lexi sobbed, nearly hysterical as she draped her brother’s arm over her shoulders.
“Please, Melissa. We need your help. Lance is hurt—bad.”
Hunter hugged himself. The snow flurries had melted within his cell, but there was still a leftover chill from the witch’s retaliatory snowstorm. How apt that she took an icy approach. She probably thought he’d been replaying that particular memory out of spite, but he wasn’t.
Okay, so maybe there was a tiny bit of spite in there, but he’d really wanted to find out more about his captor. She’d been so young in that memory, not even an Initiate—untried and untested with her powers. He’d seen her hurt flare when her mother discussed her as no more than a resource for the coven, sensed her fear and anxiety at being married off, seen her blanch at the mention of the Hawthorns. The White Oak Coven... He racked his brain, trying to remember what he knew of the family. He knew of no current alliance between the Hawthorns and the White Oaks, and managing and orchestrating alliances and enmities were part of a light warrior’s toolbox, as his manipulative father had taught him. Arthur Armstrong had made it his business to understand, and even to influence, the partnerships and negotiations within Reform society.
When he saw Melissa’s dream of the ball, though, she’d been close enough to her current age—definitely an adult, and not some sixteen-year-old on her first introduction into Reform society. What had happened with the Hawthorns? He knew enough of Eleanor Carter’s reputation to know the Coven Elder was politically savvy and extremely powerful. What had happened to Melissa’s arranged marriage? It was an archaic custom, and one that couldn’t be enforced. If the Scion didn’t wish to be married off, there were opportunities to withdraw without causing insult, but he couldn’t remember hearing of anything involving the White Oak Coven. Hell. It wasn’t like Melissa was the kind of woman who could be discreet and diplomatic in that kind of situation, so surely he would have heard of some shock or scandal...?
Every time he learned something of his captor, it just raised more questions. Not that a broken engagement was any help to him getting out of his prison... He was just...curious.
He settled himself back against the wall. She was tired. His dreamwalking was disturbing her sleep. He regretted that. Her face had been pale and drawn when he’d caught a brief glimpse of her as she’d tossed him his lunch. If she wasn’t craving a nap, she’d be going to bed early tonight. He frowned. Goose bumps rose on his arms. He realized there was a chill in the air, but he also knew excitement when he felt it—and he was strangely excited by the prospect of seeing her in her dreams. She was unguarded there, and hadn’t quite figured out how to block him, yet—although he’d had to exercise more effort last night, so she was getting there. He saw her in all her vulnerable, awkward and naive glory. So far, though, he still couldn’t understand why she was such a hard-ass when it came to the shadow breeds. To be fair, he’d behaved badly toward her, and all thoughts of protecting his brother aside, he should have factored her into his firestorm, and was ashamed he hadn’t. She had a right to be angry with him, but he sensed there was more to the anger than just him nearly killing her—although some might think that was enough of a reason.
No, he sensed there was more behind that anger, a bitter sense of betrayal he just didn’t understand—and now he couldn’t use it to get the hell out of here.
He closed his eyes. She might be avoiding him, tossing him his food from the door, and not speaking to him at all, but she couldn’t avoid him in her unconsciousness—and he’d be ready and waiting for her tonight.
* * *
Melissa grimaced as she and Lexi struggled to carry Lance’s massive form over to the bed in her spare bedroom. It had been quite the challenge for both her and Lexi to get him up the stairs from the bookstore in his semiconscious state, but she had no place to lie him down in the store.
God, the blood. There was so much blood. Lance’s complexion was almost gray, and his eyelids kept fluttering, as though he was struggling against a tide of unconsciousness that threatened to claim him.
“I haven’t seen him in ages, and for some reason, I just felt this need to touch base with him,” Lexi said between ragged breaths, her words stumbling over each other. “I found him like this—” Lexi shook her head, unable to continue.
“Get his legs up,” Melissa instructed as she lowered him onto the bed. She glanced at the young woman. Apparently the ring was doing its job. “There are towels in the bathroom and a bucket under the sink. Fill it up with water—don’t worry, it’s clean, and then bring it all in here.”
Lexi’s
