Page 22 of End Game

Heart in her throat, she forced herself to calm down, which was damn hard. Every cell in her body, screamed at her to move, find Ash, make sure he was safe.

Alive.

She needed to assess her surroundings, identify the danger zones. It was the smart thing to do. But the physical inaction was killing her.

She drew in a long breath, analyzed the scent, but didn’t identify anything alarming. No mustiness, no foul body odor, no metallic scent of death. Only an intense coldness beneath the left side of her head.

The contraction of her left hand confirmed that she rested on a bed. Could she turn over? Or would bindings restrict her movement?

She didn’t detect any cold metal or hard plastic around her wrists or ankles. But she hadn’t moved enough to be sure.

Feeling buoyed by what she’d ascertained so far, she rolled to her right side. Not only was she not bound to the bed, the sheets were made from the highest thread count and the duvet was so soft that she could’ve nested in it for days.

Unnerved by her findings, she blinked her dry eyes open and came face-to-face with Ash Blackwell.

“’Bout damn time,” he said, his gruff voice belying the concern bracketing the corners of his eyes. His tone softened. “You’re safe.”

“Where am I?” she asked, wincing as she made to sit up. She glimpsed a familiar nightstand, crystal chandelier, and calico cat before scrunching her eyes shut against the sharp jab of pain behind her left ear.

“Easy,” he said, pressing his fingertips against her shoulder until she laid back down. “You might have a minor concussion.”

She touched the small aching bump behind her ear and was surprised to find the area cold, until her hand brushed against a gel pack positioned between her head and pillow.

“Leave it,” he ordered, when she made to remove the pack. “It’s keeping the swelling down.”

“My head is numb.”

He pried her fingers away, gently. “Just a while longer.”

Crispy batted at his hand, ripping the skin.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, rubbing his knuckles. “Blood-letting feline.”

Kayla noticed several more scratches. “Crispy gave you those?”

“Crispy? What kind of name is that for a savage guard cat?”

Five years ago, she’d agreed to foster the calico after a devastating fire had killed her human family and left the five-month-old kitten’s right rear haunch badly burned. At seeing her singed fur and damaged leg, one of the young volunteers at the animal shelter had joked about the kitten’s close call of becoming a crispy critter.

The name had stuck.

Crispy’s leg still bore a significant burn scar, which caused a slight limp. But she was otherwise whole, hearty, and freakishly attuned to Kayla’s moods.

After three months and not a single inquiry to take on an injured cat, Kayla had decided to make the fur baby’s stay permanent. The calico hadn’t been the first animal she’d fostered from the shelter, but Crispy was the only one she’d ever adopted.

“Did you catch who attacked me?” Kayla asked.

As if sensing her unease, Crispy nuzzled her cold, wet nose against Kayla’s cheek. She tunneled her fingers into the calico’s soft fur, and the low thrum of anxiety in her chest calmed.

Mission accomplished, the cat curled up by her feet.

Ash sat back and seemed to brace himself. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

She studied his features. “What manner would that be?” The answer came to her in an instant of clarity. “You knocked me out.”

This time, it was his turn to wince. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

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