“Where’d you get the ballerina?” He touched it gently, feeling the cool surface, before glancing at the deserted hallway, just in case.
Charity shrugged. “It was my mom’s when she was a kid. She left it to me.”
Devon didn’t miss the tightness around her eyes and the tension in her shoulders. She was trying to hide some sort of vulnerability, he’d bet his life on it. Her mother hadn’t given it to her at all. That old statue was something her mother had left behind, much like Charity. Whereas Devon would’ve thrown the thing against the wall, followed by anything else within grabbing distance, Charity had clutched it to her heart in remembrance. She savored the memory of the woman who’d walked away.
Devon’s fists clenched and he ground his teeth. He turned toward the door. “Hurry up. The sun’s starting to set.”
“Jesus, don’t flip moods all that quickly, do you? Pretty even-keeled, then?”
Devon ignored her as she crossed to the closet, taking out three sweaters that looked old, faded, and moth-eaten. The way she delicately removed them, she might’ve been handling evening dresses. She folded them with care and tucked them into her duffel bag over the top of worn jeans and faded T-shirts. After that, the only thing left in the room was an ancient laptop.
It was then he realized what Andy had meant about being poor. Dirt poor. Those sweaters were her nice clothes. When she went out somewhere respectable, she wore faded jeans and one of those tatty sweaters.
Devon ran his hand through his hair, blindsided by sympathy.
She’d been left by her mother, then her first love, and still she trudged on. With nothing but her intelligence and determination.
It was commendable, which was probably why Roger had given her that weird smile.
Devon blew out an aggressive sigh and nearly punched the wall. He didn’t like when crap like this pushed past his barricades. It messed with his focus, which might get him thrown out of Roger’s pack. Why the hell had he been saddled with this detail? He was a greenie sub-alpha in a pack of college kids. He didn’t know the first thing about protecting someone, and he wasn’t great at keeping women happy, either. This sort of thing wasn’t in his wheelhouse, and even if it had been, someone as important as Charity apparently was needed a heavy hitter. Someone who had been in the trenches for a while. Someone who could throw down if Vlad came calling.
“You have a whole language made up of scoffs and grunts,” Charity said as she checked under her bed. “I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that I don’t speak it.”
“How much longer?” he asked.
The only thing left in sight was a picture in a cheap, fake silver frame. A haggard and worn woman looked out from a round, sun-damaged face. Her thin eyebrows hung low over her dark brown eyes. Pronounced crow’s-feet etched her skin and stress lines marred her forehead. For all that, her smile was large and radiant, with a sparkle in her eyes for the picture taker.
“I took that a year before she left,” Charity said, noticing his gaze. She sighed. “We snuck into the county fair and spent the day looking and watching.”
“Looking and watching?”
“Yeah. At cows, pigs, crafts, people, kids—we went from place to place within the fair and looked at everything. I found a few tickets and rode a ride. It twirled me, spun me, flipped me upside down—oh man, it was awesome!”
Charity’s eyes sparkled in pleasure, and her smile lit up her face, radiating a beauty that pumped up from somewhere hidden. All too soon, her bearing tensed and she sobered, her gaze finding the picture again. Pain flashed across her dainty features before she turned back to her duffel.
“My dad got worse after that,” she went on in a soft voice. She carefully picked up the frame. “More violent. She had never smiled much, and after that day, I don’t remember her smiling at all. But that one day, we both laughed like children. It was the best day I can remember.”
Charity hurriedly swiped a tear off her face. “She was forty-five in that picture.”
Devon tore his eyes away from Charity’s face in surprise. The woman looked at least ten years older. Life had unabashedly ripped away her vitality. It was too bad.
“Anyway.” The picture was placed on top of the clothes. The duffel had room to spare. “I’m ready.”