Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven #1) - J.R. Ward Page 0,5

and down thanks to a machine. An IV ran into a shaved portion of his foreleg and soft beeping tracked a sluggish heart rate.

As she went to the animal, she could sense Rick’s eyes on her. But fortunately for him, he didn’t say one damn thing about how she needed to be more arm’s length with the wolves.

“I’m right here,” she said softly as she stroked its shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.”

Over on a counter, a knobby fleece blanket was clean and folded. Reaching for it, she flipped the soft weight loose of its order and draped it over the lower half of his body. Then she just stood there.

Her eyes roamed around the wolf’s lean and powerful body, searching for the answer to whether he lived or died. All she got was the pattern on the blanket, an animated beagle chasing flying bones and water bowls across a faded green field. The smile on the cartoon dog’s face struck her as false optimism, something that shouldn’t be peddled to children.

But like denying them the years before adult reality hit them was any better?

“I’ll test what’s in here,” Rick said with resignation.

Lydia rubbed one of the wolf’s paws and then walked over to the doorway. “Let me know what it is?”

“Sure, I’ll give you a call—”

“I’m just in my office.” When he frowned, she tilted her head. “What?”

“You’re not going home to change?”

Lydia looked down at her running tights. “Who do I have to impress? And it’ll take too much time.”

Yeah, because fifteen minutes back to the little house she rented was something she should pack an overnight bag and a sandwich for. Leaving, though … felt wrong.

“Let me know what you find out?” she repeated.

When she turned away, Rick said, “I will.”

At the far end of the clinic area, she pushed through into the administration offices. The executive director’s door was closed—no news there. The conference room was empty. Supply closet and printing alcove were, too. But there was fresh coffee brewing in the break room, and out front, Candy McCullough’s no-shit-Sherlock voice was rapid firing something about a UPS delivery that hadn’t come yet.

It was hard not to feel sorry for whoever had picked up the phone at What Can Brown Do for You?

That was the old slogan, though, wasn’t it, Lydia thought as she flipped the switch in the doorway of her office.

As the lights flickered on, she frowned.

Something was …

Crossing the rough rug, she went to her desk and looked at the landline phone, her computer, her lamp. Her mug full of pens and pencils. Her pad of paper and the two files Candy had left in her inbox.

With a shaky hand, Lydia pushed the lamp out of its strict alignment with the edge of the desk. Then she put it back in place.

“You’re nuts,” she said as she fell into her office chair.

“I don’t see why you gotta get personal.” Candy was talking as she swung around the doorjamb. “Was that Eastwind who brought you in?”

“Yes, I had to get something out in the preserve.” She rubbed her tired eyes. “He’s going to tow the ATV back. It ran out of gas—”

As Candy made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat, Lydia looked up—and lost her train of thought. The sixty-year-old woman was, in her own words, “round as a billiard ball, but not as smooth,” and her stocky body was currently squeezed into a pair of khaki slacks and a white turtleneck. Her hand-knit vest had a three-dimensional quality to it, knotty flowers and twisting vines circling her torso, the granny-chic not matching her level stare or Brooklyn accent or her high and tight in the slightest.

“I …” Lydia still wasn’t sure what she was looking at. “Is your hair pink?”

“Yeah.” Candy made a duh gesture with her hands. “Where’s your coffee? You get your coffee yet?”

“Um, it looks good. The color suits you.”

Which was a surprising truth. It also matched some of the knit roses.

“Doris did it. And I’m getting you coffee.”

“You don’t have to.” Lydia leaned to the side and opened the lowest drawer. “I am not tired in the slightest, trust me.”

“You’re going to need it, trust me.”

As Candy walked off, Lydia paused. Then shook her head and outed the Lysol wipes. Popping the lid, she snapped two free and rubbed down the laminated top of the desk, skirting the pads, the pens, the phone, the monitor, the inbox. An itch to clear everything off and do a