CHAPTER 4

PIPER

After I reread the first paragraph of my case file ten times in a row, I give up and chuck the folder aside.

"That's tomorrow's problem," I mutter, repeating one of my grandma's favorite sayings.

In her world, almost everything is a tomorrow problem. Right now, it sounds like as good a solution as any. Especially when I catch sight of the stack of medical bills on the corner of my desk.

That's definitely a problem for tomorrow. Maybe next week's problem. Maybe even a next life problem.

I drop down on my bed and drag a pillow over my eyes. I need a sensory deprivation tank. A place to exist without the past, present, and future crushing in on me from all sides. But I guess a pillow on my head will do in a pinch.

Without really meaning to, I fall asleep.

* * *

The rain is lighter now. It's a fine mist, more like a fog than anything. It presses in on me, muffling my senses.

Hands plunge out of the haze towards me. Strong fingers wrap around my biceps and jerk me into the mist. I try to scream, but no sound will come out.

I'm frozen. Helpless. Defenseless.

The hands shove me back against the brick wall, but this time, it's spongy against my spine. It's almost comfortable.

Then the owner of the hands steps forward, breaking through the rain to reveal himself. I should have recognized him already. Even through the mist, his eyes glimmered.

"You," I breathe.

The blue-eyed beast smirks. I didn't know his full mouth could do that. I've only seen him grimace. A smile looks good on him.

I feel myself losing focus. But there's danger here. I was being attacked. "Where did the other guy go?"

He leans in close. "It's just the two of us now, Piper Quinn."

The wall behind me is now a bed. Instead of standing upright, I'm flat on my back with the beast looming over top of me. I'm naked, too. When did that happen?

My heart is sputtering and I'm hot all over. Muscles deep inside quiver and tremble as he pins me to the bed limb by limb. I'm like a butterfly on a display board. But so long as it's him skewering me, I don't mind.

"You shouldn't be in dark alleys in the middle of the night if you can't defend yourself," he says. This time, he isn't chastising me. The words curl off his tongue like delicate tendrils of smoke.

"Defend myself from what?" I'm breathless as his lips graze across my neck and over my collarbone.

"Monsters," he whispers, nipping at my earlobe. "Monsters like me."

* * *

I wake up slowly.

The mist becomes blurry sleep vision. The hands at my waist become what I'm sure is a bruise from my tumble to the pavement last night. I inhale to try and disperse the butterflies in my stomach, but it hurts to breathe.

If the body really does keep the score, I'm definitely losing.

I sit up, wincing at the pain and the disappointment. The blue-eyed beast was an asshole in reality, but he can invade my dreams anytime. That was unbelievably hot.

I dig through the tangled comforter for my phone. The screen is on full brightness and I hiss like a vampire in sunlight while I fumble to darken it. Then I catch the time.

"Shit!" Despite the ache in my shoulder and my hip, I lurch out of bed and dive for my closet.

I'm late. Beyond late.

If I were to arrive at my meeting right this very second, I'd be forgivably late. But I'm still standing in my room with bedhead and flannel pants on.

The next fifteen minutes are spent alerting my boss, texting the number associated with the case file to let the potential parent know I'm deeply sorry but on my way, and then making myself passably presentable.

My bike isn't an option this morning, so I book it to the bus and then dab on some blush and mascara between stops. My claustrophobia doesn't act up so much on public transportation, especially if I find a seat where I can crack a window.

When I reach my stop, I'm so busy double checking the address in my folder and sprinting through the neighborhood that I don't register where I am until the gates are in front of me.

Tall, elaborate metal gates, hedged in by what seems to be acres of thick, foreboding trees.

Behind those, way off in the distance, is a mansion.

"That's a new one," I mutter.

I'm more accustomed to mobile homes on cinder blocks. Studio apartments with four mattresses on the floor and cockroaches climbing the walls. Mansions are uncharted territory.

What a day to skip a shower.

I go up to the gate, expecting to announce myself or something like that. Instead, as I'm reaching for the buzzer button, it sounds before I can touch it. The gate swings inward.

I look over one shoulder, then the other. But the bus is long gone and it's eerily quiet out here now. I'm all alone.

Steeling myself, I slip through the pedestrian gate and half-jog up the long driveway. It takes almost twenty minutes of power-walking, so I have more than enough time to observe and confirm that this place is capital-F Fancy.

Trees after trees after trees. The swirls and spirals in the driveway stones stretch for almost a mile. The front door, when I reach it, is solid wood with a gold spherical knocker. And when the door opens, a man who looks like a Downton Abbey butler is waiting on the other side of it.

His face is dour and disapproving. "Ms. Quinn, I presume."

"Yes. Sorry I'm late. I meant to be here earlier, but—"

"Follow me." He turns and leads me into the house without another word.

I gulp, then close the door behind me and hurry after him.

A lush carpet runs down the center of a long hallway, absorbing the sounds of our footsteps. The arched ceilings should make this place feel like a church, but there is enough rich wood paneling and brass fixtures to keep it warm and cozy. It's beautiful.

I don't like to stereotype, but I can't imagine not trusting the owner with a child. I mean, they probably have enough money to take care of half of my caseload without breaking a sweat.

Even with the rough start, today might turn out to be a much-needed easy day, after all.

The butler stops and pulls open a door. "Mr. Viktorov, Ms. Quinn is here to see you."

"Finally," a deep voice grumbles from inside the room.

It's not a warm welcome, but I can't blame the man. I'm ridiculously late.

I put on my friendliest smile and step through the door. "Hello, Mr. Viktorov. I'm so sorry I'm late. You must be—"

My words dry up as I look past the intimidating desk in the center of the room to the man just beyond it.

His eyes are as blue as they were in my dream.

As blue as they were in the alley last night.

For a few seconds, all I can do is stare. This can't be real. I'm still asleep. Then the blue-eyed beast stands up and fixes me with a frown.

Definitely not a dream, then.

While my body struggles to keep up with my brain, a single word rasps out of me.

"You."