“Perhaps, but it’s also the truth. For most of our relationship, I’ve felt like a third wheel. There was always Quinn, or work, ahead of whatever you and I were doing. I’m not built to stand around and wait, Riley. I never will be.”
“But Quinn’s gone—”
“Work isn’t.”
“Dammit, you know I can’t abandon work. Not when there’s so few people in the day division.” Hell, we’d discussed my being a guardian—and just what it entailed—up on Monitor Island. We’d even talked about the whole fertility thing, and me being a half-breed. None of it had seemed to be a problem to him.
But maybe he’d had the time to dwell on it since then. If so, I guess I had to be glad my work seemed more of a problem for him than my mixed heritage and inability to carry a child.
He continued, “All I’m asking for is a decision on us going solo. It’s not like I’m asking for forever.”
No, but if I went solo, it would be because I was sure it would end up with forever. Right now, what I wanted most was time. Time to grow into us. Time to be really sure. I didn’t want to go solo only to have it all fall apart. “It’s too early—”
“It’s not.” He grasped my shoulders and shook me lightly. “You keep saying you want the white picket fence ideal, and yet you seem totally unwilling to step into the arena and take a chance.”
“After being used and abused by a past couple of mates, a certain amount of caution is hardly surprising,” I retorted.
“Caution, yes. Feet dragging? No. I won’t wait forever, Riley. Patience is not one of my virtues.”
“It’s not one of mine, either. Trust me on that.” I reached for my clothes. “I’m going for a swim, then I’ll head off to the assignment. And I’ll come back to your place as soon as I can.”
He studied me for a moment, his green eyes still bright with a mix of annoyance and determination. He wasn’t going to give up until he’d gotten what he wanted, and a small part of me couldn’t help being thrilled by that knowledge.
“And the commitment I’m asking for?”
I rose. “I want this to work as much as you do, Kellen, but I won’t be pushed into anything. Not again.”
“I’m not pushing. I’m just asking you to think about it.”
“I will.”
“Good.” He paused, then added softly, “Just remember, I’m not Liander.”
“Well, thank heavens for that. I mean, he’s gay.”
His grin seemed reluctant, but he rose and drew me into a kiss that was very much a signal of intent. A statement of caring and demand.
In some ways it was scary. In others, exhilarating. I mightn’t be sure that I wanted to take that extra step so soon into our relationship, but I was sure of one thing. I didn’t want it to end.
Which meant I might have to take that step, go exclusive, before I was really sure about the true breadth of my feelings for him.But I didn’t say that. Didn’t say anything. Just enjoyed his kiss and his closeness while I could.
I had a quick dip in the old dam we’d camped beside, then dressed and hurried over to the cab. Kellen gave me his jacket and another toe-curling kiss, then sent me on my way.
Once we were on the highway and headed for the address Jack had sent me, I retrieved Kellen’s phone from my pocket and went through the files.
The information was sketchy, at best.
Apparently, a neighbor had heard strange sounds in a nearby vacant house and, on investigation, had spotted a shadowy figure inside. He’d reported it to police, who’d arrived, found the victim, and called the Directorate.
There were no details of the murder or the victim, which probably meant the cops had sealed the scene, awaiting our arrival. It also meant the Directorate’s forensic team hadn’t arrived yet, because otherwise there’d be at least some description of events.
I looked back down at the files. In the past, the strength of my connection with the dead seemed to depend on the freshness of the death. The newer the death, the stronger the connection—and the more likely I’d be able to successfully interpret or understand what they were trying to say. If indeed they had something to say. But part of me was hoping that the soul wasn’t hanging about. Talking to dead people wasn’t on my list of favorite things to do.
We were on the Calder Freeway, heading toward Citylink and Melbourne, when I noticed the driver looking into the rearview mirror, his expression a little worried.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, even as I looked around.
“That truck is getting a little too close for comfort.”
Which had to be the understatement of the year. All I could see was this huge silver grille—and it was getting huger by the moment.
“Maybe you need to swing into the other lane, and let him pass.”
“Tried that. He seems intent on tailgating me.”
Just what we needed—a truckie intent on playing chicken. “Can you report his ass?”
“Can’t see the license plate.”
“Maybe I can.” As I looked around, the truck seemed to leap forward, until all I could see were the little bugs caught in the deadly-looking, silver-plated grille. I had a bad feeling those bugs could be us if we weren’t very careful. “You might want to step on it—”
The rest of my words got lost in the screech of metal as the truck rammed into the rear of us, the force of the blow lifting the rear of the cab up for several seconds before sending it lurching forward. The force of the hit flung me about like a rag doll—at least until the seat belt kicked in and just about choked me. How the driver kept control I have no idea.
I looked out the back window again, saw nothing but bug-splattered grille, and twisted back around to brace myself against the front seat. “Floor it!” I yelled. “He’s coming at us again.”
“Don’t you think I’m fucking trying?” the driver yelled back, his face red and his eyes wide with fear.
The cab’s engine was just about screaming and, for an instant, the car leapt forward, leaving the growl of the truck momentarily behind.
But all too soon, its thick roar filled the air and I didn’t need to look around to know it was closing in fast again.
And then it hit us.
This time, the blow wasn’t square-on, because suddenly the car was spinning around and around. Then the truck hit us a third time and the cab seemed to be flying. I was upside down, and the world was tumbling.
I can’t remember the cab actually hitting anything, nor can I remember blacking out, but I must have, because suddenly I was hanging upside down, held in place only by the seat belt, the roof of the car underneath me and my hair draping into a small pool of blood. Blood that seemed to be dripping from my forehead.
I groaned, and turned around, trying to see where we were. The driver—far bigger than me—had half-crumpled onto the roof and looked to be unconscious. His body was covered by bits of glass that sparkled like diamonds in the early-morning light. There were cuts all over his face and his right arm was hanging at an odd angle. Beyond him, the front of the cab had been crushed, the top of the windshield now meeting the bottom. Steam gushed through the bits and pieces of glass that remained.
I couldn’t hear the truck, thank God. Just the groaning of wounded metal and the hissing steam. I twisted around and pressed the seat belt release. Nothing happened. I pressed it again, and the thing let go, dumping me onto the roof. Glass sliced into my hands and I cursed softly. I might be a werewolf, and I might be able to heal such wounds easily enough, but it still fucking hurt.
I kicked out the remaining glass in the side window with more force than necessary, then carefully crawled out. The grass and mud felt like heaven under my fingertips, and for a moment I just knelt there, sucking in the cool crisp air and trying to stem the shaking that was beginning to rise from deep inside.
“Hey, you all right in there?” a male voice said from the other side of the car.
“I am,” I said, “but the driver’s unconscious.”
“I’ve called the cops and the ambulance. You think I should move the driver out?”
“I don’t know if he’s got internal injuries.” Hell, I didn’t even know if I had internal injuries. Right now, I was feeling kind of numb. Maybe it was shock.
I called to my wolf form, felt the energy of her tingle through me as my limbs reshaped and re-formed, until what stood there was no longer human. I didn’t move, sucking in the scents around me, aware of the sharp, rusty scent of the hissing steam, and the piney scent of the man standing on the other side of the crushed cab. But there was no sense of immediate danger. No sound that indicated the truck might be coming back to finish us all off.
I shifted back to human form, the process helping the bleeding to stop and wounds begin to heal, then pushed to my feet. The tree spun briefly around me, then stopped. I blew out a breath, and carefully walked around the crumpled trunk.
The stranger—a small, round man with brown hair—looked me up and down, then said, “You’ve been bleeding.”
“Happens after a car accident.” I bent down to look at the driver. His skin tone was normal, and though his breathing was a little rapid, it didn’t seem an immediate problem. “The driver has a broken arm. If the ambulance isn’t going to be long, I suggest we just keep an eye on him, and keep him calm when he wakes.”The stranger nodded. “Saw the truck that hit you. Got its plate number.”