Page 17 of Tossed into the Mob
The apartment was filled with large windows covered by curtains the bodyguards had closed. It contained rooms with so much empty space. My mind filled each corner with bookshelves, ornaments, schoolwork, and life’s clutter. Everything gleamed, and the sofa was big enough for a kids’ sleepover party.
“Choose your bedroom.” Treyton pointed to doors at the end of a long corridor. “Each has its own bathroom.”
I longed for privacy, to weep and mourn my dad, but his cavernous apartment lacked warmth and personality. But I could hardly admit I wanted Treyton in my room. Poor guy had spent last night on the sofa.
The first room had a king bed with a couch. I stared at the mattress with the pillows piled high as Treyton asked if I wanted to shower. He had Saran wrap in one hand to wrap around my injury.
“Please.”
The closets were filled with generic clothes, all new, and he pulled out a pair of PJs still in their original packaging.
“Are you okay to sleep by yourself? I can bunk down on the sofa.”
I tilted my head, astounded that this man who’d saved me was so attuned to my mood. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
I was acutely aware of my bare chest and his feathery touch as he wrapped my arm. Once I was out of the shower, he’d clean my wound and bandage it. I almost looked forward to the routine because he held me as if I was something he treasured, even though I’d caused him nothing but trouble.
“We can talk more in the morning.” He understood I had questions.
“How about we do that now?”
SEVEN
TREYTON
“We can do that.”
I had questions too, not so much for Brock, but for my family. I was fuming that they’d left us without answers, disappearing as if they’d been swallowed up. And Flint flippantly told my mate life would improve.
Brock wanted to know about his father’s life. He had nothing other than a blank canvas. No one had even offered him a photo.
My family weren’t usually so cold and unfeeling. It’d been me, standing between the family and my human mate, though it was a role I’d gladly taken on when I discovered who Brock was. But I’d been left without support, rudderless in a sea of unanswered questions. I loved my cousins, but they were asshats this evening.
Even Grandpa hadn’t been any help other than to give us his car. I’d sensed he and Rudy were pleased to get rid of us when they kept looking at one another.
“Treyton, can you explain what happened tonight? I don’t know my father’s name. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
There was so much to unpack about the evening, but I was almost as clueless as Brock. But he’d made a good point. Couldthey be protecting his late father? Oh shit, what if he wasn’t dead but he was the gunman? Or he had been the gunman and now he was dead?
Maybe Brock and I had to undertake our own investigation.
“What can you tell me about the man who killed your father and shot you?”
I counted the seconds, wondering if he would reply and wished I was in bed with him so I could comfort him. Not because I wanted to make love—of course I did—but because he was my mate and I couldn’t treat him as one, instead, keeping my distance and acting as a good friend. That was what he needed, not a guy slobbering over him.
“Not much. He was dressed in black and had short dark hair.”
That didn’t help, but trauma affected people, so a witness’s memory wasn’t always reliable.
“But when he fired the gun at me, his eyes were so dark, as if there was something behind his gaze. Almost like his long line of ancestors were staring at me. But that’s silly, right?”
I sat up, my wolf did too. Goosebumps erupted on my skin. That vague description suggested the shooter was a shifter, because in our beast’s eyes were the souls of our forebearers.
“Not at all.”
Thoughts ricocheted around my head as I tried to fathom why someone wanted to eliminate a human omega who’d birthed a La Luna Noir guy’s child over two decades ago and kill said child.
“Treyton, you’ve been so kind and you saved my ass, but could you arrange a meeting tomorrow with Flint? As well as needing answers, I’d like to have something of my father’s. A book or a photo. Anything. And to learn something of his life.”
