Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
When she got to the bus stop, no one was inside the Plexiglas box, and she took a seat on the wooden bench, wincing as her hip sent out a protest. Putting her head in her hands, she felt like the world might be spinning, and as she got nauseous, she straightened back up and tried to find something to distract herself.
People hadn’t been kind to the bench, carving names and initials into the wooden slats, the scars of true-love hearts and “4evas” marring the weathered horizontals. Likewise, there were scratches all over the clear plastic panels that bordered the concrete slab, and as daylight dimmed, the headlights of approaching cars turned things milky white.
Like she was sitting in a cloud.
She thought of the man with the beautiful eyes who had done what he could to make things right. It seemed strange to miss someone she didn’t know.
Shifting her weight to relieve the pressure on her pelvis, she knew she was going to need another round of aspirin tonight, and figured tomorrow she was probably going to be even more sore. She’d always found two days after an injury was the worst—Wurster—for swelling and pain.
She didn’t even know his name.
Probably should have taken a page out of the detective’s book and made a proper introduction, huh.
“Crap,” she muttered.
* * *
Down in the basement of Darius’s home, in the master suite, there was a whole lot of pacing going on. Fully dressed for war, with weapons holstered on his chest and backup ammunition strapped to his hips, he made yet another loop around his antique desk… then crossed the Persian carpet and passed by his bed… and ended the circuit with a swing by the closed door to the stairwell.
No new territory. And he made the trip again.
He was retreading the behind-the-desk stretch when a soft knock brought his head around. “Yes?”
Except he knew what it was. He could scent the—
The heavy wooden panels opened. Fritz, butler extraordinaire, was standing out in the shallow hall at the base of the stone steps. In between his hands, a sterling-silver tray that was polished to a high sheen supported a cloche-covered, traditional First Meal of eggs, toast, sausage, and hash browns. There was also plenty of fresh coffee and orange juice, because the doggen never forgot the beverages.
Like Darius, the elderly male was dressed for his work, the formal black suit and tie, and spit-and-shine black shoes, what he always wore until Last Meal, when he changed into black tie and tails. As well, the worry etched into his wrinkled face was a perennial part of his uniform: In spite of being the very personification of perfect service, he was always anxious, as if dire consequences were about to land like a piano on his head.
And currently, Darius knew what the problem was, but he couldn’t help the male.
“Sire.” The butler bowed low over the food he had so lovingly prepared. “Upon your desk?”
“Thank you, Fritz.”
The doggen walked across and placed the tray on the blotter. Then he stepped back, straightened his formal jacket, and stared at the floor.
“He’s not going to eat anything,” Darius said gently.
“But mayhap if I were to ask him—”
“Do you honestly want to wake him up?”
“Mayhap you could, sire?” The old male trembled at the temerity of asking his master for aid of any kind. But according to his entrenched, traditional dictate of serving whoever stayed the day, he was stuck between a real rock and a hard place. “He is much, much less likely to kill you, sire.”
The latter was tacked on with a shot of hopeful optimism, although it was hard to say whether that was tied to Darius acquiescing to the request… or living through the proposed interaction.
Darius shook his head. “I don’t want to give him any excuses not to come here. At least we know where he is when he’s across the hall.”
The pair of them looked out of the master suite. On the far side of the shallow space, the door to the guest quarters was closed tight—and considering what was inside, the chamber should have been triple locked. Chained. Barricaded.
Which was what you did to keep monsters away from the general public.
“Shelter is all we can provide him,” Darius said.
“I wish there was more, sire.” The doggen bowed again, and then changed the subject with a palpable resignation. “Your car is in the garage. You did not provide me with instructions as to whether it should be repaired or sent to the junkyard. So I thought it best to keep the remains on-site until you decide.”
Like it was a dead body—and the whole autopsy thing was up in the air.
“Thank you, Fritz.” God, he’d forgotten all about the BMW. “I’ll deal with it later.”
“As you wish. Is there aught more I may do for you?”