Page 31 of Tabitha

I eventually answered him, enjoying the chance to talk about Tabby with someone, though I take care not to give away her secrets. No doubt, she will make me pay for spilling the information, but she can’t keep herself locked away forever.

While I want to keep her to myself, Tabitha deserves the attention.

She deserves to be flattered and worshipped and treated like a desirable woman.

And if I’m truthful, it would be nice to have someone help look after her and keep her out of trouble. It’s become a full-time job recently, and I would do anything if it means keeping her safe.

I glance at River, feeling a sort of kinship with him, and relent a tiny bit. “Tabby is very literal and very logical. She might be pissed at him.” —I jab my thumb in Bast’s direction— “but she won’t hold a grudge against you just for being his associate. Just give her time to process and calm down first.”

River glances up the stairs, calculating how to get past me, then his shoulders slump and he nods. “Fine, but I’m coming back tomorrow.”

It’s both a warning and a threat, and I smile, eager to see how Tabby will handle the attention. Maybe I shouldn’t encourage the other man while working an active investigation, but part of me suspects that this is the only way that I’m going to be able to crack through the hard shell surrounding her heart.

Between the two of us, maybe she’ll finally see herself as not just an assassin, but a beautiful woman who deserves to be worshipped.

* * *

TABITHA

Ilisten to the men talk for a few minutes before I tune them out. Turning, I shove my shoulder against the nearest door, then pause on the threshold when I realize I entered the master bedroom.

My grandfather’s room.

I’ve been alone for so long that it feels weird to call him that, especially since he’s a complete stranger to me. If he’s anything like my father, maybe it’s a blessing that we never met. I probably would’ve gone to jail for killing off the last living member of my family.

Though I’m pretty sure I would’ve been able to get rid of his body and any incriminating evidence before anything was discovered. Being related to the victim would have made things tricky, but I’m sure I would’ve been up to the task.

The bedroom is done in dark woods like the den. The space is huge, giving off an open, airy feeling. Every piece of furniture in the room is ancient, antiques from years gone by. The bed frame is a massive beast that looks older than dirt. As I near, I can’t seem to look away from the intricate carvings in the wood. I expected fairy tales and shit, but it looks like battle scenes—humans fighting against supernatural creatures.

Possessiveness hits hard and fast.

I pick through the packing supplies, hastily scribble a note, then slap it on the frame.

Mine.

Allowing myself to get distracted by packing, I go through the entire room, ruthlessly getting rid of anything that doesn’t hold my interest. To my surprise, I somehow manage to keep more than half of the furniture in the room, and I scowl at the wallpaper of sticky notes.

Maybe I’m more like my family than I thought.

Honestly, I’m not surprised that I fit in so well with a group of psychos.

I manhandle a couple of the flat boxes into shape, tape the bottoms, then march toward the old wardrobe. I tug open the doors, grab the clothing, hangers and all, and yank them out.

Wrestling with the huge load, I drop the pile into the waiting box, then shove the sleeves and hangers inside the container. The fuckers are everywhere, like the shirts and jackets are trying to drag themselves out. I finally force them into submission with only a few scratches from the hangers in retaliation for my efforts.

I turn, ready to grab the next load, only to slow as I approach the wardrobe.

I grab the rest of the clothing, throwing it haphazardly behind me to reveal a trapdoor.

Okay, my interest is now thoroughly piqued.

I look for a handle or latch but find nothing. I work my fingernails into a tiny groove—

“Fuck!”

The nail breaks down to the quick. I suck my abused finger into my mouth and glare at the door, but the damned thing refuses to give away its secrets. I reach for the blade in my boot, smirking at the thought of how well the stupid door will hold up against steel. I lean into the cupboard, lift my knife, and something gives beneath my hand.

There is a slight snick, and the door pops open an inch.

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