Gone with the Wolf - By Kristin Miller Page 0,36
God you’re awake. I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.” Drake leaned back in his chair, though he still seemed on edge. “How do you feel?”
“Hungry. Tired. Achy.” Like she’d been flattened by a steamroller. “Where am I?”
“After the gala I brought you to my house outside the city. It’s the most heavily guarded home I have. Consider it your personal Fort Knox.”
She felt safe with Drake, no matter if she slept in Fort Knox or his mansion in Seattle, but she appreciated the fact that he wanted to make her feel that way.
“Is your head pounding?” he asked, rubbing his hands down his slacks.
She winced, touching the back of her head. Memories of the gala fought to the forefront of her mind. Why couldn’t she remember details from that night? Why was the event a blur after Drake’s speech? “I feel like power drills are grinding into my skull.”
“That’s good, under the circumstances.” Drake crossed his legs, bringing his ankle up over his knee, causing Emelia’s concentration to blow apart.
She hadn’t noticed until now: his tie was missing and his dress shirt was unbuttoned to his waist. As Drake shifted in his seat, the sides of his shirt fell away, revealing tan, sculpted muscle on his chest and downright lickable washboard abs. Despite herself, Emelia’s tongue shot out over her lips.
“A power drill is playing tic-tac-toe on the back of my head. Remind me how that’s a good thing?” She dropped her head back on the pillow and groaned. “My insides feel raw.”
“Raul is bringing you some Tylenol along with breakfast. Is there anything you want in particular? I’ll bring doughnuts if you promise not to practice your pitch on me.”
“Very funny.” As Emelia’s stomach growled, a hunger pang ripped through her. “This is going to sound crazy, but I’d kill for deep-dish pizza. Too early?”
“Not at all.” Drake laughed, the tension in his gravelly voice washing away. “I’ll have Raul bring you the best pizza in the city.”
His eyes glazed over and his head kinked to the side. Almost as though he floated somewhere in his mind. Then, in the next breath, he was back again, the same specks of worry shining in his eyes.
Suddenly, Emelia realized she wasn’t wearing the dress from the gala. “What’s this?” she asked, tugging on the collar of a men’s white cotton T-shirt. The thing was huge, dwarfing her body and sagging over her shoulders.
“After I brought you here, I changed you out of your gown. It had a few stains on it. I didn’t peek.” Smiling, Drake put up a hand in pledge. “Swear on the Bible.”
“You probably don’t even own a Bible.”
“I washed your face,” Drake continued, “and took down your hair. I thought you’d be more comfortable that way.” He grabbed a bottle of water from the bedside table, unscrewed the top, and handed it to her. “Here, take it. I’m sure you’re parched.”
Drake was right—her throat was abnormally dry. Like she’d wolfed down a package of sandpaper. She meant to take a sip of the water, but couldn’t stop guzzling once the water hit her throat.
“How long was I out?” she asked, handing back an empty bottle.
“It’s Tuesday morning, so…two days.” He checked his watch and frowned. “Did you dream?”
Two days? How could she have slept that long? She’d been known to sleep until nightfall on weekends after pulling an all-nighter at the bar, but still. She had to get back and check on the bar. Although the Knight Owl was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, Emelia would have to call Renee right away to make sure everything went smoothly over the weekend. Renee wasn’t a stranger to running the bar, and Emelia was grateful she had someone to call while she ran off to the city with Drake, but it was time to get back.
Drake’s voice droned in her ears, fighting with odd, resurfacing memories from the gala. Hadn’t there been fur and…snapping teeth?
She blinked quickly, realizing she hadn’t answered his question. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Did you dream while you slept?”
“No, no dreams.” She stroked her collarbone, remembering stabbing pains shooting through her neck. She pulled the collar aside and rubbed where she was sore. Nothing but pink, swollen flesh. Her right thigh was sore, too. Steading herself, Emelia glanced under the sheet. A light purple bruise marred her skin. Memories slapped her cold. The attack. The wolves. Drake. She forced herself to remain calm and get answers to the questions buzzing like bees in her