Page 64 of Riot House
Before I can start the long walk back to Wolf Hall, a light suddenly comes on up ahead, casting a yellow glow out into the darkness. Riot House rises up out of the ink-black forest, appearing out of nowhere, and my frantic heartrate slows. So, they are home after all. A part of me is relieved by that knowledge, but the rest of me is frustrated that I’d even let myself ca—
A steel bar wraps around my neck, cutting off my air supply. “Scream and you’re fucking dead,” a vicious growl warns.
What the…what thefuck?
For a second, I am fear personified. My mind just…blanks. I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think…
The impossibly strong band around my throat tightens. “Little sneak,” the voice hisses. “Tiptoeing around in the dark, spying on people. Very bad,petite pute française.Very bad indeed.”
The blockade that slammed up inside of me shatters, falling apart. That phrase: little French whore. That’s what Pax called me when I walked into my very first class at the academy. I have no doubt that it’s him standing behind me, trapping me in a choke hold, and with that knowledge my fear evaporates. He’s not a monster. He’s not some supernatural creature, prowling out of the woods, looking for his next meal. He’s just a guy with an attitude problem, and I’ve been trained how to deal withthose.
I slam my elbow back and up into his ribs. He’s so much taller than me that he’s had to bend himself over to grab me, which means I can get a lot of momentum behind the blow. Pax huffs out a surprised breath, winded, and I use the opportunity to my advantage. Twisting, spinning in his arms, I jam my knuckles into his throat, slamming them into his Adam’s apple, and his hold on me disappears.
“Fucking…bitch!” he roars. “Come here. Get your ass hereright fucking now!”
He blinks, shocked, when I obey him without a second thought.Sure, I’ll come to you, motherfucker. I’ll berightwith you.He exposes his teeth, anger burning brightly in his eyes, and makes a grab for me. I have him by the wrist, though. I yank his arm around, slamming my palm against his elbow, forcing the joint to bend the wrong way, and Pax reacts the same way all the big boys do when they’re about to get their arm broken: he drops to his knees, crying out in pain.
From there, it’s easy enough. I release his arm, but I’m not done with him just yet. The sole of my Doc Martin lands between his shoulders when I kick out, putting all my strength behind the blow. He topples forward into the leaf litter, cursing furiously, and then I’m on his back, anticipating what he’ll do next, already waiting for him to try and twist around underneath me. My fist’s raised, wound back as far as it can go, ready to break his fucking nose and end his pretty boy modelling career for good, when—
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” a polite voice informs me. A hand closes around my wrist, tight enough that I can’t wrench it free. Pax jackknifes, bucking me off his back, and I fly sideways onto the ground. Dash stands over me, his face a blank mask, his expression utterly unreadable. With only the dim light from the house spilling over his features, he looks like a statue of a man. An inanimate carving left out for the elements to claim.
“Crazy...little…fucker…” Pax pants, whirling around to face me. He’s about to lunge down and grab hold of me again, when a third figure materializes out of the shadows. Like a pale wraith, Wren stands over me with his hands hidden in his pockets, dark hair obscuring half his face. His crooked smile looks more than a little wolfish.
“Well, boys. Better break out the good china,” he rumbles. “Looks like we have ourselves an unexpected house guest.”
22
ELODIE
The coffee’sbitter and warm and sends a shiver of pleasure running down my spine. Dash sits on the very edge of the leather sofa, watching me drink from the cup with a level of fascination that makes it seem like he just woke from a three-thousand-year coma and he has no idea what coffee is. Or mugs. Or sofas. Or girls who know Krav Maga.
“That really was quite impressive,” he says, resting his chin in his hand.
“No, it was fuckingdumb,” Pax snaps, massaging his throat. “She knew I was fucking around. She cranked that shit up to eleven for no reason.” He’s sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall by the open fire, glaring balefully at me while he tends to his ‘bruised’ windpipe. I barely fucking touched him.
Wren hasn’t said much. He stands by the doorway that leads through to the kitchen, his shoulders tensed, as he watches his two friends. His jade eyes have skimmed over me once or twice, but his main focus has been on Dash and Pax, as if he’s waiting for something to happen. He’s wearing a black hoody and some loose sweatpants, and boy does he make them look sinful. The son of a bitch could make a garbage bag look good, though. I look away from him, only to catch Dash frowning deeply at me.
“What brings you over, love? We adore receiving people, but the place is kind of a bombsite. It’s past midnight and we just got back from a very long trip. We were about to start some party planning.”
The house is spotless. The thick cream rug that Pax’s annoying ass is sprawled out on looks recently vacuumed. The glass coffee table doesn’t have a single fingerprint on it. The beaten brass panel above the fireplace is so polished, it’s as reflective as a mirror. The moody paintings on the walls—black, blue, white, slashes of emotion on canvas—are much more breathtaking now that I’m seeing them properly lit, and don’t have a fleck of dust gathering on their frames. The magazines and books on top of the sideboard are so perfectly aligned that not a rogue corner or dogeared edge pokes out from their stacks. The place looks like a fucking hotel lobby.
Wren coughs into his balled-up fist, apparently trying to muffle his snort of laughter. The corner of his eyes are crinkled, betraying his amusement, though. I never thought it possible for him to smile, but it actually happens pretty frequently. You just have to be paying attention in order to catch it—
I catch something else, as he holds that hand in front of his face: his knuckles are bruised. One of them is split open, red and raw. They weren’t like that the other night in the attic, nor in the library, either. I would have noticed. He’s hit something since I saw him on Saturday, and by the looks of things, he hit that something hard. As if he can feel my gaze on him, Wren unclenches his fist, stretching his fingers out, and lazily shoves his hand back into the pocket of his sweatpants, looking down at his feet.
“Sorry for interrupting your party planning,” I say in a droll tone. “I just…came to return a book I borrowed from Wren.”
I pull A Study in Scarlett out of my bag, holding it sheepishly in the air, as if showing them the book will inexplicably make my excuse less lame.
Wren looks up at me from under dark, banked brows, giving me all of his attention at last. He looks pained, though. His mouth twitches, slanting up at the side. “Ahh. Sherlock Holmes. Yeah. I wondered where that had gotten to.”
“God, you’re pathetic,” Pax laughs. He rips the sock of his right foot, balls it up and hurls it at Wren’s face. “A girl skipped down the hill in the dark, by herself, and you’re standing over there, all,‘Ohhh, Sherlock Holmes. My favorite book of all time? Credit us with a little common sense. She came here to get somedick, Jacobi.”
Dash laughs down his nose but manages to cut it off pretty quickly. He studiously stares up at the ceiling, looking anywhere and everywhere but at me. The only person who actually does look at me is Wren. He must see the bright red stains on both my cheeks. My embarrassment can probably be seen from outer space. Ducking my head, I crack my neck, letting out a steady, even breath. What does it matter if that’s what they think? Who fucking cares anyway? They’re a pair of jackals, these two. Equally detestable, for a variety of reasons. I won’t be cowed by their stupid, inane comments or their adolescent tittering.
Slowly, I get to my feet, still holding the coffee mug and the book in my hands. “Whatever. I’m gonna go up to your room, Wren. I’ll give you a beat to figure out those party planning duties. No rush.”
The three of them just stare at me as I waltz across the open plan living room area and I begin to climb the stairs. My heart slams like a jackhammer, my pulse roaring, but I don’t falter. I hold the mug steady in my hands. I put one foot in front of the other, cool and even, a picture of calm. Until I reach the second-floor landing and they can no longer see me, that is. My hand shakes so violently that the coffee in the mug sloshes over the side, splattering to the polished floorboards. Thankfully the liquid misses the plush grey carpet runner, but I’ve still made one hell of a mess.
