Page 51 of Taken By Raider Kings
Sophie lay on her side,staring at the mutated rectangle of streetlamp light reflected against a blank white wall.The house was full of different smells—caramelized onions and steak, musk and warmth.It took so little to make a place into a home.
Or a trap.
She closed her eyes.The Hammerheath mansion rose behind her eyelids—granite-floored kitchen, God help you if you dropped an egg.The marble foyer.The receiving room and parlor, the sweeping grand staircase.The master bedroom with the huge oak bedstead she’d retreated to with increasing frequency, after Marc beat her so bad she couldn’t stand.The maids, gliding on noiseless slippers—arriving at dawn and going home every midafternoon, so as soon as the prying eyes were safely away Marc could come home and find fault with everything Sophie had done during the day.The landscapers constantly clipping, mowing, watering, spreading bark over the parklike estate.
The parties, worrying over the caterers, seeking desperately to avoid Marc’s drunken fists afterward.The sense of being in a pressure cooker, heat rising and tension building, each moment a potential land mine waiting to go off.
Those goddamn copper pans hanging over the kitchen island, buzzing and rubbing against each other, sounding just like a lazy rattlesnake.
I’ll bet you’ve always heard weird things, seen things out of the corner of your eye.You were a daydreamer when you were a kid, right?
That didn’t prove anything.But the vampires did.And what about the faces in the mist—and the crackling that went through Zach’s family before they changed into lean graceful figures, nothing like werewolves in the movies.No matterhowgood the special effects were.
She sighed, turned over, rested her head on her arm.She hadn’t wanted to use someone else’s pillow, though Zach probably would’ve found one for her.He’d watched her all evening, quiet save when Julia got a little too rowdy and needed reining.Dark eyes, his gaze nailed to every move Sophie made.
Not like Marc’s—assessing, judging, weighing.No, Zach stared at her like he was hungry, but too mannerly to insist on eating.Just like a stray cat, careful not to wear out his welcome.
Though she didn’t think of cats when she smelled them.That musk, for one thing.
I wonder what Carcajou means?He never said.
Did it matter?
Someone was right outside her door.She’d heard him settle down about a half-hour after retreating to this room—the master bedroom upstairs, with its own bath.
The shaman’s room.
They really wanted to please her.Even Julia, who kept shooting sly little glances.Checking to make sure Sophie was watching, just like a kid.
Julia wasn’t afraid of Zach at all.Each time she got a little overexcited, the “alpha” would corral her.The interactions never escalated, and that was so strange to witness.
The someone shifted right outside her door, a low subtle whisper of sound.
Oh, let’s be honest, we know it’s him.
She was helpless to stop imagining Zach leaning against the jamb, or maybe sitting with his long legs across the hall, that one stubborn curl falling across his forehead.Was he standing guard, or making sure she wasn’t going to escape?
Her back ached dully.The scab on her hand throbbed, though it had swiftly closed, healing far more rapidly than it should.She had the peculiar head-stuffed feeling of having spent all day tramping around in frozen, drizzling sleet, following Zach’s broad back.The side of her face was still a bit tender.
Her eyes drifted closed, which meant the faces drew closer.The reedy cricket-noise was far away, but definitely louder than it had been.
He tasted like wildness.Like pure sugared heat on a summer night.
Thatwas the thought she’d been avoiding.Sophie almost groaned, pulled the blankets—all smelling of musk and detergent—up a little farther.She was deeply, exquisitely exhausted, so why couldn’t she sleep?
Because something was bothering her.
Why would Marc sacrifice her?He didn’t care if she lived or died, right?That was whatdivorcemeant.Still, there were the precautions she’d taken, because he was damn near unstoppable when he decided he wanted something.
He was quite capable of killing her, if enraged enough.She knew that now.Not just accidentally strangling her or drowning her in a fit of rage, but planning and lying in wait and striking.
Like a snake, though animals weren’t cruel.Only hungry.
But why on earth would he also want Lucy dead?Unless it was pure revenge.He had to have suspected Luce helped her escape.But Sophie had been so careful, planned for every eventuality to cover their tracks….
Still, he wasn’t stupid.He had to have guessed, especially since Luce had showed up in the courtroom.Lucy was the only friend shehad.Other than all the old-money wives, but none of those were in the least friendly.
And Delia Armitage, iron-haired but oddly unlined, which wasn’t strange because she could afford the best facials in town.Always turned out beautifully in sober designer originals, mostly in black-and-white—pretentious, sure, but also supremely fashionable.Always watching, queen of the social scene, her beady little eyes often fixed on Sophie.
