Wild Hunger

  As the door closed behind her and Trick, the noises of the waiting room were replaced by the soft drip of the saline, the reassuring steady beat of the heart monitor, and the low sounds coming from the TV.

  He double-blinked at the sight of her. “Francesca.” She half expected his heartbeat to pick up, but it remained steady. “I didn’t think you would come.”

  She might feel pissed and let down, but . . . “I’m not heartless.”

  “No, but we’ve given that heart of yours a pounding lately.”

  The admission surprised her. “You remember Trick.”

  “I do.” His head slightly moved in what could have been a weak, hesitant nod of greeting, but Frankie couldn’t be sure.

  She didn’t take the plastic chair next to the bed. Instead, careful not to bump the IV stand, she went to his side and rested her hand on the metal side rail of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. I don’t need to stay here overnight and have all these extra tests done.” He cast a glare at the admittance bracelet on his wrist. “Your grandmother insisted on it.”

  “She’s feeling helpless. Using her pull is her way of doing something.”

  “Well, I’d be far more grateful if she brought me food that wasn’t dry or tough.” He sniffed at the table at the foot of the bed, on which rested a tray with a half-eaten meatloaf. “The way she’s acting, you’d think I’d had a heart attack or was suffering from a mystery illness.”

  “At least you have a private room.”

  “The pain medication isn’t up to much in this place.”

  “You’re just complaining because you want to go home.” She wanted to ask about the shooting, but she figured it was the last thing he’d want to talk about—especially when he’d no doubt just done that with the police.

  He exhaled heavily, looking weary. “Believe it or not, Francesca, your grandmother and I have always wanted the best for you. Maybe we didn’t always do what was best for you because of our own bias and guilt.”

  “Guilt?” she echoed, her brows furrowing.

  “No one should have to bury their own child. Christopher might have killed her, but I let her down. If I hadn’t agreed to set aside my reservations about her mating, if I had pressured her to leave him, she would be alive today. That’s why I’ve been so immovable on this. I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt when I could have prevented it. I didn’t want to make that same mistake with you that I did with Caroline, but it would seem that I’ve made other mistakes.”

  “Your guilt is pointless,” she told him. “She couldn’t have left him. Mating bonds are metaphysical constructs that connect two people to the extent that they can’t live without each other. You couldn’t have convinced her to leave him—even if you had, she’d have died anyway because they needed each other.”

  He looked from her to Trick. “And you have that bond now?”

  “I do. I’m sorry that you’ll never be able to support that. But if your parents hadn’t approved of Marcia, would it have made any difference to you?”

  He averted his gaze. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t have.” He patted her hand, but he still didn’t meet her eyes. “I was wrong to have said that you should get a real job. I hope you can forgive that, if nothing else.”

  Tears crept up on her, making her throat feel thick. Seeing that he was tiring, she said, “We have to go now. You take care.” With that, she left the room.

  Trick linked their fingers. “Let’s go.” At her nod, he led her down the hallway and through to the waiting room. Brad and Marcia looked up, but their expressions were unreadable. Trick guided her past them, straight to the door.

  “Francesca,” Marcia softly called out. As Frankie turned, the woman’s eyes landed on the mark on Frankie’s neck and then dulled. She knew it was a claiming bite. “I’ll have Edna keep you updated.”

  In Trick’s opinion, that wasn’t fucking good enough, but it was better than nothing. He could see that Marcia desperately wanted to say something different, to extend an olive branch, but she just couldn’t yet do it. He squeezed Frankie’s hand. “Come on, baby.”

  It wasn’t until they were in the SUV, buckling their seat belts, that Frankie spoke. “I didn’t expect him to talk to me, let alone say those things. I didn’t expect Marcia not to throw me out.”

  “She wants to reach out to you, but she doesn’t know how. One thing you can say for her is that she didn’t lash out with her pain. Just like you didn’t lash out with yours when you were reunited with Lydia.” Frankie and her grandmother were similar in some ways—cool, protective. It was a shame that an ocean of unsaid things lay between them.

  Maybe Clara was right and the Newmans would one day soften, just as they had with Caroline. But Trick had a feeling that it would take a while for that to happen, if it ever did.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Frankie’s feet made no sound as she walked down the brightly lit corridor. It seemed like forever before she arrived at her grandfather’s room. She pushed open the door. She frowned. Geoffrey was gone. There was no bed. No equipment. No TV. Only a red door at the other end of the room. Maybe there was a nurse in there.

  Frankie turned the knob and walked inside. She was in her display room, surrounded by her sculptures. Chilled, she flexed her fingers and—

  The chair was empty. The child was gone.

  Frankie heard it then. Creaking. Like old, rickety bones trying to move. She turned, but it wasn’t the child she saw. It was Marcia, Geoffrey, and Brad. They were looking at the sculptures, bored and unimpressed.

  She called out their names, but they didn’t answer. Didn’t seem to hear or see her. She called out to them again, louder this time. But her grandparents turned their backs and walked away. Brad’s body faded and morphed, and suddenly she was looking at Rio.

  “You can’t keep him,” Rio told her. “Not in the long run. You’re not what he needs.”

  Hearing the creak of bones, Frankie whirled on the spot. It was the child. She was crawling on the floor. She stopped. Slowly and stiffly lifted her head, making her hair part.

  “Run,” she whispered.

  Frankie swallowed. “Why?”

  “He hurt her. He’ll hurt you.”

  The smell of gunpowder permeated the room. Blood dripped down the walls. A growl echoed in the small space—a space that seemed to be getting smaller and smaller by the second.

  Another growl. “You’re supposed to be in—”

  Frankie’s eyes snapped open, and her body jerked. Jesus Christ. Her wolf snarled and raked her claws, disturbed and anxious. The arm that was curled around Frankie from behind briefly tightened. She swallowed with a throat that was as dry as attic dust.

  Trick kissed her hair. “Another nightmare?” His voice was rough with sleep.

  Nodding, she struggled to sit upright and blew out a long breath. Trick sat up with her and grabbed the glass of water from the nightstand. She took it with a weak, grateful smile and sipped at the water. Her heart was pounding like crazy, and the beat seemed so loud in the quiet of the room.

  Trick smoothed her hair away from her face. “What happened in the nightmare?”

  Frankie handed him back the glass, and he returned it to the nightstand. “They’re all so similar. I’m always in my display room. Always surrounded by my sculptures. At least one of them talks to me. And I always smell that scent mixed in with blood and gunpowder. And then there’s that voice . . .”

  “Come here.” Trick scooped her up and cradled her on his lap. He did his best to remain calm, knowing it was what she needed, but seeing her this way pissed him the fuck off. She always looked drained after the nightmares, as if they took a lot out of her. His wolf snuggled up to her even as he growled in frustration—the thing that was hurting their mate wasn’t something they could fight.

  “What am I not seeing, Trick? What has my subconscious picked up that has gone right over my head?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, rocking he
r gently. “I wish I did, if it meant these nightmares would go away.”

  Sensing that sleep wouldn’t come easy, Frankie glanced at the clock. “It’s just past six a.m. I think I’ll go sit on the balcony for a while.”

  “Okay. Come on.”

  She frowned as he edged out of the bed with her still in his arms. “You don’t have to—”

  “Shut up, baby.”

  “Well, that’s very nice,” she muttered, though she was grateful that he’d be with her. He settled in one of the chairs with her on his lap, and she drank in the gorgeous view of the sun peeking over the mountains.

  After a long silence, he asked, “You sure you’re up to seeing Clara today?”

  “If I could get out of it, I would. Packing up Iris’s things isn’t my idea of a good time. But Clara and Lydia really want me to be there. Apparently it’s tradition for the women in the family to do it. And it’s hard to say no to Lydia, especially when I know she needs the support. What will you be doing with yourself?”

  “I’m going with Trey, Ryan, and Dominic to check out a spot where Morelli’s rumored to be hiding. We’ve had plenty of tips since we put a price on his head. None of them have amounted to anything. He’s deep underground. But he can’t hide forever. It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

  She frowned. “Who is this lady? What does it matter that she’s fat? And why does her singing have such importance?”

  Trick just shook his head. “Anyway . . . we got a tip that said Morelli was hiding near the landfill. He’s probably not there either, but . . .”

  “But you want to be there with Trey and the other enforcers in case Morelli is, because you want to be the one who kills him,” she understood.

  “Yes.” Trick caught her gaze, wanting her to see the ruthless intent there. She needed to know he’d do it, and he’d do it without mercy or regret. “And I will be.”

  “Does this mean I’ll end up cuffed to the shower wall again while you work off your brood?”

  His lips twitched. “Probably. Marcus and Roni will escort you and Lydia to Bjorn Pack territory. It’s unlikely that you’ll run into any trouble there, but I want you protected.”

  Although she thought two bodyguards was overkill, Frankie said nothing. The last two times he’d left her, she’d been hurt. First by Drake, then by Rio. It made sense that he’d want her to be adequately protected.

  “Onto a different subject, any news about Geoffrey?” he asked.

  “I spoke to Edna just before I went to bed. According to her, he’s fine.” She’d thought about calling him to check in, but if they were going to make their way back to each other, it was something they should do in baby steps.

  “Good. I wouldn’t be surprised if he contacts you soon, inviting you for lunch. Your family thinks of shifters as monsters. The shooting reminded them that humans do bad things too.”

  She nestled closer to him. “Yeah, I guess it did.”

  Soon after breakfast, Marcus drove Frankie, Roni, Lydia, and Cam to Bjorn Pack territory. To give Clara, Lydia, and Frankie the emotional space to go through Iris’s possessions, Cam went fishing with Cesar while Roni and Marcus relaxed on Clara’s back porch.

  As Clara was swathing one of Iris’s many knickknacks in bubble wrap, she asked Frankie, “So how are things with you and Trick?”

  “Great,” replied Frankie, packing clothes into a box.

  “Nothing can quite beat a mating bond, can it? It’s a gift that most humans will sadly never experience. I’ve always pitied them that.” Clara sighed, her smile nostalgic. “I was very young when I realized Cesar was my mate.”

  Lydia’s brows lifted. “Really?”

  “Fourteen. He was sixteen. It was too early for us to claim each other. Our parents wanted us to wait until I was seventeen, so we did. I didn’t let him claim me straightaway, though. No, I insisted that he court me proper.”

  “Court you?” echoed Lydia, mouth twitching.

  “Oh yes. I’d been reading a lot of Jane Austen novels at the time. I wanted romance. He gave it to me, bless his heart. Iris did the complete opposite when she realized Alfie was her mate. Like with Frankie, it took her a few months to see the truth. When she did, she wasted no time at all in stating that he was hers and demanding that they claim each other. The poor man was practically railroaded, but it was obvious that he was happy to be.” Clara sealed a box with tape as she spoke. “Do the Newmans know that you’re mated yet?”

  “Yes,” replied Frankie. “They saw my claiming bite when I spoke to them a week ago after Geoffrey was shot.”

  “Shot?”

  “An old court case came back to haunt him.”

  “Ah.” Clara began wrapping up another ornament with tissue paper. “How did they react to the bite?”

  “They didn’t, but they didn’t chase me out of the hospital. Geoffrey admitted to making mistakes, but unless he’s willing to accept Trick, it’s neither here nor there to me. My grandparents and uncle have to know that Trick and I come as a package deal. I’m not saying they need to welcome him into the family, but they do need to accept that he’s part of mine.” The best and most important member of her family.

  “It should be enough for them that Trick makes you happy,” began Lydia, “but it won’t give them any reassurance, because Christopher made Caroline happy, and yet . . .”

  Frankie sighed. “And yet.” She glanced out the window, catching sight of her old home. “I have something I need to do.” She cut her gaze back to the other two females. “I want to go to the old cabin.”

  Lydia’s eyes glinted with anxiety. “Frankie, I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

  “Maybe not, but I need to do it.”

  “Can you at least wait until Trick gets here?” begged Lydia. “You shouldn’t do it alone.”

  “He’ll try and talk me out of it. Josh granted permission for me to walk through it. I keep asking Trick to bring me here, and he keeps putting it off.” She’d be an old woman before he finally let her do it. “If it was possible that I’d have flashbacks, I’d get why you’re concerned. But whatever memories I have of that night are buried deep. For me, walking through the cabin will mean facing my past. Accepting what happened. Getting some closure.”

  Clara’s eyes lit with understanding, but Lydia still seemed anxious.

  “Trick once said to me that I need to accept my past and my heritage,” said Frankie. “He’s right. Our mating bond isn’t complete yet. What if it won’t fully snap into place until I do as Trick said and accept my past?” She lifted her chin. “I really do need to do this.”

  Lydia raked a hand through her hair. “I’ll go with you. Please don’t argue. I can’t stand the thought of you doing it alone.”

  “It’ll be hard for you,” Frankie warned her. After all, the female’s brother had died there.

  “I didn’t see anything that night. They didn’t even let me near the cabin. The only memories I have of that place are good ones.”

  Frankie sighed. “All right. Clara, will you be okay here?”

  “Of course,” replied Clara with a wave of her hand. “Take whatever time you need. For what it’s worth, I think this will be a good thing for you. I’ll let Roni and Marcus know where you’ll be.”

  “They’ll probably follow us over there,” said Lydia. “But they won’t go inside—they’ll give you the privacy you’re due.”

  With Lydia at her side, Frankie walked out of the cabin and over to her childhood home. The place looked . . . sad. Boards covered the windows, panes of wood had been hammered into place across the door, and insults had been spray painted on the walls.

  Hell, even its surroundings were bleak. There were overgrown weeds everywhere. On the cabin’s right side was a dead tree that was somehow still standing. On its left was a pond that had long ago dried up.

  A lone crow was perched on the rotted porch rail; it watched them as they clambered up the steps. The twigs and leaves littering the porch crunched und
er their feet as they crossed to the front door. Frankie and Lydia grunted and cursed as they worked to pull off the planks that obstructed the door. They probably would have had a harder time doing it if the wood hadn’t gone soft with rain and rot.

  Once the boards were gone, Frankie let out a long breath. The door had no knob, so she shoved it open with her elbow. The moment she stepped inside, she grimaced. The chilly air was stale and clouded with dust and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and pot. Wrappers, empty bottles, beer cans, and cigarette butts were scattered around the floor.

  Lydia sighed in disgust. “Looks like kids have hung out here over the years. I’m really hoping they didn’t also use it as a make-out spot.”

  “That would be morbid, considering two people died here.”

  Their footsteps echoed as they walked over creaky boards, overriding the sound of the wind whistling through broken windows. The cabin was empty of furniture. No pictures or paintings hung on the walls. The only items that had been left behind were light fixtures covered in cobwebs. Aside from the black splotches and graffiti on the walls, there was no hint of color. She could almost think that no one had ever lived there. It was a husk of a house, really.

  “I expected to see some abandoned furniture.”

  “The cabin was stripped of all its belongings,” said Lydia. “I think my mom and dad were worried that someone would set the place alight and everything would be destroyed. Emotions were running very high back then.”

  Silence fell between them as Frankie explored the downstairs space. “I didn’t expect to have any flashbacks or sensory memories, but it’s kind of gloomy that I can walk through my childhood home and find no comfort in it at all. Every inch of it feels unfamiliar to me.”

  They entered another bare room, and Lydia said, “This was, um, the kitchen. This was where it happened.” She cleared her throat. “At first people panicked and thought that someone had taken you.”