Prince of Shadows by Susan Krinard

He were dead too. But now that was a fact, and too dose to the edge of pain.

“I never lacked for anything,” she continued. “We were wealthy. He gave me all the money I wanted. Especially when I stayed away. I went to one of the best colleges in the country. The day I graduated he actually came, but we had a terrible argument.” She swallowed thickly. “I never saw him again. Now it’s too late.”

She knew how close Kieran was to touching her, holding her as Peter had done. He took a single step and braced his feet against the floor, as if he could lock himself in place there.

“The argument,” he said softly. “What was it about?”

No. She wasn’t getting into this. Not now, and not ever.

“I don’t want to discuss it, Kieran. It’s pointless.” She struggled to regain her fragile calm.

“And Peter?”

His question was ambiguous, devoid of intonation or any hint of what he was truly asking. She remembered the blankness of his expression when he’d walked in on her and Peter.

“I told you we used to know each other. He came all the way out here from the West Coast to tell me about my father. To help.” She turned to face Kieran. “I need to talk to him—”

“But you didn’t want to see him.”

Alex closed her eyes. “I know I gave that impression. Seeing him again—and the news he brought…” She faltered. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

Even that admission was too much. Kieran was coming toward her, earnest in his desire to comfort her, and if she let go one more time she’d have nothing left to fight with.

“I know what I want, Alexandra,” he said.

She waited for the touch of his big hands, torn between anger and helplessness and need, just as she’d been with Peter. But this was different. Different because Kieran came to her without the burdens of her past. Because he could understand exactly how she felt.

Would it be so terrible to accept what he was willing to give, even for a moment?

His touch never came. When she opened her eyes again, he was gone—without warning, as he had come.

She was alone then. Exactly as she’d wanted. Alone to sort through feelings she didn’t understand. Feelings like grief, which should have been normal and cleansing.

Nothing could ever be that simple.

She lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling with dry and burning eyes.

And when at last she slept it was not of loss she dreamed, but of a great black wolf who led her on a search for something wondrous that lay on the other side of pain.

* * *

Joseph found Peter Schaeffer easily enough. The outsider had the best room in Merritt’s motel, a luxury model with its own kitchen and a king-size bed.

But Schaeffer seemed far from pleased with the world when he answered the door to Joseph’s knock. He looked at Joseph with pinched mouth and narrowed eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

Joseph smiled. Ill mannered, this boy, as ill mannered as all those of his generation who had forgotten the virtue of respect for their elders. Joseph pulled off his knitted cap and clutched it between his hands.

“You don’t know me, Mr. Schaeffer, but I believe we have something in common.”

Schaeffer was capable of great charm when he felt so inclined. Joseph had watched him since his arrival in Mer-ritt the day before—had listened and followed, unseen, as the city man inquired about Alexandra Warrington and gave the gossips fuel to chatter about his purpose in Mer-ritt. That he didn’t belong here was apparent, with his polished city ways and arrogance; but his generosity in the bar and his quick smile had loosened the tongues of many who were more than willing to talk about Ms. Warrington and her odd guest.

Schaeffer had no charm to spare now. He looked Joseph up and down, hardly deigning to hide a sneer behind his smile, “I doubt we have much in common, Mr.—”

“Arnoux,” Joseph supplied.

“Arnoux,” Schaeffer repeated, mangling the pronunciation. “Do you have any idea what time it is? If you don’t mind—”

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