Or maybe not, she thought as her stomach gurgled unhappily. Her bladder didn’t care for the idea, either. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“It’s down the hall. I’ll have to escort you.”
That sounded more like “prisoner” than “guest.” “Okaaaay … but it’s awkward to put on my jeans with you watching.”
He nodded, turned, and walked out, closing the door behind him—not quite all the way. The not-quite-closed door had to be intentional. “You do that a lot, don’t you?” she said, reaching for her jeans.
He sounded amused. “Watch women dress? Occasionally.”
She huffed and threw back the covers. “Answer without using words. You don’t use a lot of words. Maybe that’s why you’re good at summaries. You summarize everything.” She looked down and saw her shoes lined up neatly by the bed. And her socks.
She picked up the socks. They were clean, fluffy from the drier. Someone had washed them. She tilted her head, considering that. While she was unconscious she’d been tended by a doctor, put to bed in her underwear and shirt, and her socks had been washed.
Having a doctor check her out, putting her in a comfy bed—those could be an attempt to win her trust so she’d tell them what they wanted to know. But washing her socks? That was nice. Just nice.
She pulled them on and stuck her legs in her jeans. The elastic bandage got in the way; she had to tug the denim over it. “Me, I like to talk, and I don’t know how to ignore the details, because they’re interesting. You didn’t tell me what you plan to do about me.”
“The Rho has decided you should stay here, as our guest, until you tell us why you’re here, or we find out through other means.”
“That’s a prisoner, not a guest.” She bent and pulled on her shoes.
“We can’t hold you against your will.” He was bland now. “But if you leave, we will notify the police of your trespass onto our land.”
Last night his Rho had said they could do anything they wanted with her, up to and including killing her. Or had it been all implication? She cast her mind back over that part of their conversation. The threat had been mostly implied, she decided. In fact, he’d been careful not to say anything that might get him in trouble if she repeated it to the police.
Not that she would. Unfortunately, they’d figured that out. That hadn’t been hard, given how she’s reacted when Benedict mentioned calling the cops. Arjenie sighed and stood up. She’d pretty much handed that weapon to them. “That’s coercion. Where’s my cane?”
The door opened. “Here.” He came in again and handed it to her. “Nettie says you should stay off the ankle as much as possible for another day. I could carry you.”
“No, thank you.” He was standing awfully close. Could she really feel the heat from his body, or was that her imagination? “I’m glad you asked this time, though. Uh—where am I?”
“The Rho’s home. We’ll be dining with him. You are a guest, but not one we trust, so I’ll be keeping track of you.”
Her mind arrowed straight at one part of that statement. “You’ll be keeping track of me? Personally?”
“Since your mind tricks don’t work on me, yes. They shouldn’t work on Seabourne, either, so he’ll take over when I need to sleep or have other duties.”
“Why wouldn’t my Gift work on him?”
“Shields. You know what he is. Why is that?”
Because she’d read about him in the file. And she knew his wife. She’d sent Cynna a present for her baby shower last month, an adorable little receiving blanket with … oh. Oh, no. She was so stupid.
Arjenie limped for the door. Her ankle was much better than she’d expected—tender, but not really painful. Another reason to thank Dr. Two Horses, no doubt.
“The bathroom’s to the left. Seabourne scares you.”
“Not exactly.” But boy, he did throw a spanner in the works. Or rather, his wife did. If he mentioned Arjenie’s name to Cynna, they’d know who she was. Then what?
She needed to think. She paused when she reached the hall, looking around. Next to the door was a wooden chair. There was a flute on its seat. To the right the hall ended in a den—maybe the room she’d seen last night, from a different hall. She could see a couch and part of a window. On her left the hall continued about fifteen feet before ending in a closed door.
She limped off to the left. “That was you playing the flute. I thought it was my uncle at first, though I didn’t recognize the song.”
“You wouldn’t. I’ve never recorded it.”
“You write music? You wrote that song?” She had to pause and smile at him. “It’s beautiful. How did you know I’d woken up?”
“I heard you move.”
“Really? Even over your music? Do you hear as well when you’re like this as you do when you’re wolf?”
“I hear better as a wolf.”
She tried to imagine what that was like. “Which do you like better, being a wolf or being a human?”
“We don’t think of ourselves as human. One of my forms is a man. One is a wolf. I like both forms. Which do you like better, your right arm or your left?”
“I’m right-handed, so my right arm is more useful, but I don’t like one best … oh. That’s what you mean. Both forms are you, and you don’t have a favorite. But maybe one is more useful.”
“You might say I’m ambidextrous. You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m curious.” She’d reached the bathroom, but instead of going in, she turned to face him. “What’s your last name?”
He didn’t answer. It wasn’t hesitation. That implies doubt, uncertainty, and his eyes stayed steady on hers. Such dark eyes, like bittersweet chocolate … and wasn’t that steadiness central to him? He knew how to wait, this man—on events, on understanding, on whatever might rise from inside. Nor did he seem to be seeking something from her. He just looked into her eyes, and the longer he looked, the faster her heart beat. Finally he spoke. “I’ve used more than one surname, but at birth I was called Benedict Charles Kayani.”
Arjenie didn’t know why she was sure he’d offered her a secret, a glimpse of something private. She just knew. A little bud opened inside her, so soft and subtle she barely noticed. “It’s a growth plate injury.”
Those dark eyes blinked once, overtaken by puzzlement.
It made her grin. “Uncle Clay says I’m a firefly—here, there, here, then off somewhere else. Sometimes I forget the conversational breadcrumbs, so there’s no trail for others to follow. You keep asking about my physical impairment. It’s from a growth plate injury when I was twelve.”
Understanding dawned. “One of your legs is shorter than the other. The left leg. It’s not greatly different, but enough to cause problems.”
She nodded. “My left tibia didn’t grow as much as my right, and it grew crooked. I had a couple surgeries that corrected most of the crookedness, but it isn’t entirely straight, so that foot turns under me if I’m careless. I’ve had a lot of sprained ankles.”
“How were you hurt?”
“An auto accident. Drunk driver. My mom was killed.” Now why had she added that part? She never did. People felt obliged to say they were sorry, or they became uncomfortable, or—
He touched her cheek. Just that, and just for a moment, then his hand dropped.
That’s when she noticed the bud. It was singing, or humming … yes, a funny little humming feeling inside her, so new she didn’t have a word for it. It was not attraction, though heaven knew she was attracted to this man. But that was a known feeling. This—this newness, what was that? It didn’t make sense.