The Moth and the Flame (When Rivals Play #2) - B.B. Reid Page 0,6

crack under his meaty fist.

“I need you to fix my shoulder,” Wren explained although he didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“It had better be life or death,” he threatened.

Wren shrugged his uninjured shoulder and headed for the bottle of rum on the wooden coffee table. I was still standing in the foyer, feeling seriously out of place, when the bear of a man stomped over to me and demanded my name.

“Leave her alone,” Wren said before I could answer.

The man grunted and stuck out his hand. “Call me Shane.”

I shook his hand and started to offer my name when I caught the subtle shake of Wren’s head. Since Shane had his back turned, he didn’t witness Wren’s objection, but the warning was clear.

Don’t trust him.

“Pleasure,” was all I said.

Shane growled his displeasure, eyed me up and down, and then disappeared upstairs, probably to silence the pitter-patter of little feet coming from above.

“Why don’t you—”

“No,” Wren interrupted.

My lips snapped shut, increasing my frustration. If Wren didn’t trust this guy, why come here? “Well, can I ask for a glass of water, at least, or will that get my head blown off, too?”

Wren’s nostrils flared before he shot up from the plush couch and stalked into the kitchen. I smiled as I listened to him open and slam cupboards and drawers and then, eventually, there was running water from the faucet. When he returned, I couldn’t hide my shock when he handed me a tall glass of water and a peanut butter sandwich.

“Thanks.”

He walked away without a response, and I followed him into the living room where he watched me closely as I ate. Shane returned just as I was taking the last bite of my sandwich. It only took a few seconds since I couldn’t remember the last time I had something to eat or drink.

Shane ordered us to follow him into the kitchen and set a large case on the table. When he popped open the lid, I saw all kinds of medical instruments and medicine. It wasn’t your typical first aid kit, that’s for sure. I might have assumed he was a doctor if he hadn’t answered the door with a gun in his hand looking like he’d use it and sleep like a baby afterward.

And I doubt they’d swear as colorfully as Shane did when he peeled the jacket and shirt from Wren’s body. I gasped as a sense of foreboding crept up from fingertips until it seized my entire body. All I could do was gape as my mind raced to understand, to accept, and then to plan a fucking escape. The nasty wound on top of his shoulder didn’t turn my stomach nearly as much as the tattoo etched into the skin of his nape—a bold X with the number nineteen in the left angle, an eighty-seven in the right, and the notorious motto underneath.

I am not led.

Exiled.

Wren was Exiled.

And everyone in the city knew what that meant.

I didn’t know how to even begin from here. I’d already guessed that Wren was dangerous. Those guys wielding automatic weapons meant business, which told me Wren was no angel.

But this…this was a death sentence. And I was guilty by association.

Wren glanced over his unwounded shoulder, and I could feel him watching me, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t give him one. I pretended my wide-eyed horror was for his wound even though the bullet had only grazed him just as he said. He lied when he claimed it wasn’t as bad as it looked. A shudder shook my body as I imagined how much pain he must be in. How he’d been able to pretend otherwise, I’d never know, but right now, he looked seconds from passing out.

When Shane finished cleaning the wound, he dropped the bloody cloth on the table, and I noticed Wren paled and turned his head in disgust.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like blood,” I blurted with equal parts hostility and incredulity.

He stared back at me but didn’t respond.

“Makes him queasy,” Shane supplied. “Last time, he threw his guts up all over my floor. Bethany bitched for a week.”

“Last time?” I squealed. “You mean he’s been shot more than once?”

“This makes three,” Shane informed with a misplaced sense of pride.

I swayed on my feet as if someone were pointing a gun at me right now. Wren had been shot three times? But he was so young. Why would anyone want to hurt him? Was it because he’d hurt them first? Sorrow, fear, anger…it all