Page 25 of Into the Woods

For right now, I’ll let it go, at least this part of things. I need whatever information I can get from this guy, make a plan, and steal us away to safety.

“She’s in shock, been shut down since I put her in the car.”

I don’t miss the tender way he strokes her hair, runs his knuckles down her cheek, the side of her neck. The softening of his eyes as his gaze roams, touching her everywhere.

“Why are you just now getting here? Where did you take her?” I push my way to Tru’s side and drop to my knees in front of her.

She’s here, but she’s not present. For years, I’ve done everything I could to protect Tru from the outside world. Soothe her anxieties, keep the scary monsters and things that go bump in the night far, far away from her.

“She—”

I cut him off. “And who are you? What’s your name?”

A muscle in his jaw jumps and his eyes narrow ever so slightly before he blows out a sharp breath. “Teague Grey. I work for Mr. Robicheaux,” he states sharply. When his gaze darts back to Tru, it softens considerably. “Truie was…she was struggling when we left the cemetery. I drove until she calmed and then brought her here. I took her straight to her suite of rooms last night. I assure you; I saw to her needs personally.”

My glare is so sharp, it almost shocks me not to see blood dripping from his eyes.

“You saw to her needs? If you hurt her…laid a single finger on her…” I can’t even finish my thought.

This whole situation is so fucked up.

“Chr—Excuse me. Mr. Robicheaux asked me to bring her to see you as soon as possible today. She’s…she’s not yet eaten and needs to drink some water.” Teague glances from Tru to me and asks, “If you could perhaps encourage her along those lines, I would greatly appreciate it. I have some things to see to for Mr. Robicheaux.” He waits for my response before nodding once again and stepping out into the hall.

Garrick takes the ginger oaf’s place, a heavy tray of food and drinks balanced expertly on his fingertips. “I’ve taken the libertyof bringing a simple tea. A bit early in the day, but it seemed prudent.”

He presents a gorgeous spread of finger sandwiches, hand pies, and tarts. Cookies and delicate little cakes.

I’ve never in my life seen anything so lavish. He can’t really think this is simple, can he?

Fine porcelain plates are set before us as well as crystal water goblets, but the cutlery is very obviously absent. Not that it’s necessary for the food, everything is bitesize.

“Is it a special occasion?” I ask, my voice sharper than the sweet man deserves.

“Miss?” He pauses in his ministrations, his brows pulled together. “It’s truly a simple offering. Mr. Robicheaux didn’t want your dinner spoiled. Is it not to your liking?”

Lord help me, I feel like I’m in an alternate reality. Like the shit I saw my parents tripping through when they took too much of their own stash.

“Would the lady rather have something different? I’m happy to provide whatever it is you’d prefer.” He stands ramrod straight and smooths his perfectly tailored jacket. The man is quite serious and now I feel like a bumbling idiot. A rude bumbling idiot.

“No, I’m sorry. Everything looks great, really. I just meant”—I point toward where my plastic cup from last night sits on the end table—“I’m being trusted with real glassware?”

A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “It would seem so, miss. Is there anything more I can do for you? For Miss Cochonette?”

“You’re still opposed to leaving the door unlocked and letting us sneak out of here?” I know the answer is no, but it can’t hurt to try.

“I see the lady has a lovely sense of humor today.” He steps to the door and before locking us in tight, adds, “Dinner is at eight. Mr. Robicheaux will expect you to dress for the occasion.”

Hours later, after spending most of the afternoon with Tru, watching movies and doing everything in my power to coax some water into her, she’s asleep. Curled into a tight ball tucked into my massive bed, the throw Teague placed over her gripped securely in her balled fists.

Each time I moved the throw, Tru pulled it back in tighter, but of the handful of words she gave me, not a single one gave me anything about where she spent last night. Not a word about what happened or why she’s been shaking so hard.

All I’ve gotten from her at the mention of Teague is the smallest pause in her trembling as she clutches the last thing he touched to her chest.

I glance at the clock and curse the fact that I can’t just stay here with her. I’m exhausted and the last thing I want to do is squeeze myself into the scrap of a dress that was delivered to my room.

It’s gorgeous—bloodred and cut to mold to my curves.

Grudgingly, I shower and dry my hair, twisting it into space buns perched on the crown of my head. As I dust on makeup, I wonder who went shopping for all of this and exactly how they matched my colors so perfectly.

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