Page 3 of The Beast's Betrayed Mate
“Michael’s laptop,” he spoke out loud, realization hitting him. If he had used the memory stick on Michael’s laptop, then he must have been in Michael’s apartment the night prior. “I went there…”
He searched for the end to that sentence, closing his eyes in concentration.
Why had he gone over to Michael’s if Michael hadn’t been in touch? Why did he have a memory of being in the apartment if Michael hadn’t let him in? He could have used his spare key, of course, but he rarely did that without Michael first telling him it was fine. And there had been no new messages from Michael.
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Peter…”
“Not now, Olive, okay?”
“I just…”
He tore the door open, pulling himself to his full and not inconsiderable height as he yelled, “I saidnot now!”
She stared at him, taken aback. As did every other person in the office space. Olive was holding a cup of tea. It was clearly meant for him.
He deflated slightly. It wasn’t like him to lose his temper. He really wasn’t feeling that great.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, unable to even form a protest when Olive stepped passed him through the door.
She pulled him with her, closing the door behind her. She had that wrinkle between her eyebrows she always got when a problem that wasn’t allowing itself to be easily solved was bothering her. In fact, she was a solid analyst and a part of him wondered—hoped—that perhaps now that she was already barging into his personal space, she’d be able to tell him what the fuck was wrong with him. Make sense of all the odds and ends.
“What is happening with you today?” she asked. “You look dead.”
“Harsh,” he retorted.
But probably accurate. He had never known her not to surmise her findings with precision. If he was a problem in wait of being solved, it seemed the solution had just been handed to him—he was dying.
The furrows on her brow deepened as she indicated his bandaged hand. “What’s that?”
He looked down at it. There were no traces of any blood seeping through. He thought that indicated that it was nothing to worry about.
“Oh, um, that,” he said slowly, weighing his words, opting for the truth. “I think something bit me maybe.”
“Maybe?” she repeated, a sharp note behind the word that made him frown at her.
Could shenot?
“Yeah, it’s hard to tell for sure and I don’t…” He trailed off.
“You don’t what?” she pushed.
“I don’t remember exactly how I got it,” he admitted reluctantly.
She put the cup of tea still in her hands down on the desk next to him, reaching for his hand and looking disgruntled when he tugged it away from her prying fingers.
No, thank you, he thought. I don’t need you looking at that. That’s not part of this equation. You just told me what’s wrong with me so your part in this is done.
She could go now. He absolutely did not need Olive Fiore examining a mere flesh wound as though it was a thing. It wasn’t a thing. If anything, it was fantasy. Something he’d sustained in a dream.
What was he even thinking?
His mind felt a little fuzzy around the edges, there was no denying it.
She grabbed his hand despite his feeble attempt at avoiding the inevitable. When she slowly unwrapped the gauze, his eyes caught on the birthmark hiding itself away long her hairline. He felt a tug to run his fingers over it. Like it might hold healing properties.
