Protective Custody

"Sit," Adrian said.

"No."

"You are bleeding on my floor."

"Then buy a new floor."

His mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was the shadow of one, and it vanished so fast she thought she imagined it.

They were in a private suite at the top of the Blackthorn Tower, a glass-and-steel monster that scraped the clouds above the city. Warm light. Black leather. Expensive silence.

Noah was asleep on the sofa under a wool blanket. Two of Adrian's wolves stood outside the door. Elena had counted them. She counted everything now.

She stood with her back to the window and her knife in her good hand, even though she knew it was useless here.

Adrian didn't seem to care about the knife.

He opened a medical kit on the table, pulled on a clean shirt, and turned to her.

"Your shoulder."

"It will heal."

"It's laced with rogue venom. It will fester." His voice was flat. "Take off your coat."

"I don't take orders from you."

"It's not an order." He paused. When he spoke again, it was lower. "It's a request."

Elena almost laughed. Request. From Adrian Blackthorn.

But the pain was getting worse. Her fingers had started to tingle. And Noah was sleeping ten feet away.

She slid off her coat.

He came closer, slowly, like a man approaching a wounded animal. The closer he got, the louder her pulse grew. She could feel the heat of him. She could feel the bond, a thin hot thread pulling taut between her ribs and his.

"This will sting," he said.

"I've had worse."

"I know."

His voice caught on the last word. She looked up sharply.

He wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at the long, pale scars across her back where the torn shirt fell open. Old scars. Human-hospital scars. Scars from a life she barely remembered and had to survive anyway.

His hands, huge and dangerous, went still.

"Who did this to you?"

"Life," she said.

"Elena."

"Do your job, Alpha."

For a moment she thought he would argue. Instead, he cleaned the wound.

His touch was careful. Almost reverent. His fingers brushed bare skin and her whole body lit up, a dangerous, shameful, helpless response. She dug her nails into her palm.

He doesn't get to do this, she thought. He doesn't get to touch me gently after what he did.

"You're shaking," he said quietly.

"It's the venom."

"It's not."

She said nothing.

His breath was warm against her shoulder. "My wolf won't be quiet," he admitted, as if each word cost him. "Since the moment I saw you. He keeps saying one word."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Mine."

Her heart stopped. Then started again, hard.

"He's wrong," she said. "I'm not yours. Not anymore. You made sure of that."

His hands paused.

"I made sure of that?" he said, very softly.

Elena turned around to face him.

They were close. Too close. She could see the gold ring around his pupils, the faint scar over his eyebrow, the muscle moving in his jaw.

"Don't," she said. "Don't pretend you don't remember."

"Remember what?"

"The night you threw me out."

The room went still.

Adrian's face changed. Something dark and fierce crossed it.

"The night you left me," he said, "was the worst night of my life. I woke up and you were gone. Your side of the bed was cold. Your ring was on the pillow. I tore this city apart for a year, Elena. And then they showed me the letter."

"What letter?"

"The one where you sold my kingdom to my enemies."

Elena stared at him. "I never wrote a letter."

"It had your handwriting."

"I never wrote it!"

"Then why did you disappear?"

"Because you banished me!" Her voice cracked. "You stood in front of me and said it. I remember your face. I remember every cold word."

"I never said that."

"I heard it."

They stared at each other, breathing hard, two people who had each been handed a different truth and had spent five years building a wall on top of it.

Neither moved. Neither looked away.

Adrian's voice dropped, rough and dangerous. "If I had banished you, I would not have lost my mind looking for you."

"Then why do I remember it?"

"I don't know." His hands curled into fists. "But I will find out."

Elena looked away first. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought he could hear it.

He's lying, she told herself.

But his heartbeat had never lied. She could hear it too. And right now it was racing as wildly as hers.

A knock cut through the silence.

Adrian turned. "Enter."

Lucas Blackthorn stepped in, tall, calm, his dark eyes missing nothing. He took in the blood, the bandages, the distance between them, and said nothing about any of it.

"My lord. The rogues."

"Talk."

Lucas set something on the table. A small, thin tag of black metal, stamped with a crown of thorns.

Elena froze.

"The one who attacked her wore this around his neck," Lucas said. "It's the old Blackthorn pack-silver. Only the inner circle can issue it."

Silence.

Adrian lifted the tag slowly. His eyes hardened.

"Someone inside my territory hired them."

"Yes."

"Someone with access to my pack seal."

"Yes."

"Find out who." His voice was ice. "Quietly."

"Already started." Lucas looked at Elena. "There's more. One rogue lived long enough to talk. He said they were told to bring the boy back alive."

Elena's blood turned to water.

"Why would anyone want Noah?" she whispered.

"That," Adrian said, "is what I'd like you to tell me."

She looked at him. Truly looked at him, for the first time since the forest.

He wasn't cold. He wasn't cruel. He looked like a man who had just discovered his whole world was built on a lie, and was trying not to show how badly it hurt.

"I don't know," she said, and she meant it.

Behind her, a small voice said, "Mama?"

Noah sat up on the sofa, rubbing his eyes. Adrian turned toward him.

And something happened that Elena would remember for the rest of her life.

The room's lamps flickered. A soft light spilled from the boy's eyes, gold and silver, filling the dark corners like moonlight.

Lucas took a step back.

Adrian didn't move. He went down on one knee in front of the sofa until his eyes were level with Noah's.

"Hello," he said, so quietly it hurt to hear it.

"Hello," said Noah.

"What's your name?"

"Noah."

"Noah," Adrian repeated, as if tasting a prayer. His hand rose, hesitated, then touched the child's hair. "How old are you?"

"Five."

Elena closed her eyes.

Five.

Five years since she had vanished.

When she opened them, Adrian was looking at her over Noah's head. His expression was no longer anger, or even disbelief.

It was something much more dangerous.

"Elena," he said, very low. "Tell me he isn't mine."

Elena's mouth opened. Closed.

Lie, her mind screamed. Lie to him. Protect your son.

But then Noah's hand crept into Adrian's, small and trusting, and her throat closed.

"Then why," Adrian said, "does my wolf call him son?"