Beautiful Danger. Michele Hauf

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СКАЧАТЬ it, Lark. You don’t feel safe here.

      It was called a freakin’ safe house for a reason. But nothing she looked at reminded her of home. Of him. Yet would anything ever bring back that feeling of safety, of feeling loved and cherished?

      Had it ever been love? Or simply her clinging to the idea of love, marriage and happily ever after?

      Shoving away doubt, she sighed. She wouldn’t be doing this if it hadn’t been love.

      “Only a few days,” she said, and dropped her backpack on the floor by the beige sofa.

      Even the rug was uninspired, no texture or color. At home she’d liked to dig her bare toes into the thick, soft pile of the sapphire rug before the gray leather sofa. More than a few times she and Todd had made love on that rug.

      Shaking her head rattled at the intrusive memories. Looking over the rug, she decided flat and no color was best for her now.

      At that moment a knock on the door startled her hand to her hip, fingers glancing over the stake. Perhaps it was Rook come to check on her? Made little sense. The man oversaw the Order from his office and the training facility; he didn’t often go out in the field. If contact was required with a knight, the knight went to Rook. And forget ever casually running across King, the leader of the Order. It never happened.

      “Lark,” called from the other side.

      The skin at the nape of her neck tightened. How had he found her here?

      She strode to the door and jerked it open, not fearing that he would rush inside to attack her. They’d made a deal. And besides, he needed an invite.

      The scruffy vampire leaned against the door frame, goggles pushed onto his forehead and head bowed. He wore a turtleneck beneath a hooded jacket, and leather gloves. The only skin visible was on his face, and the scarf hanging about his neck clued her in that he used that as a mask.

      “Did you track me?” she asked.

      He nodded.

      “Why? What’s wrong with you? Most people would put distance between them and the one person who had explicitly stated she’s of a mind to kill you.”

      “It’s afternoon,” he said. “I’ve still got a good eight hours before our deal expires. May I come in? It’s raining out.”

      “The rain won’t make you sizzle.”

      “Actually, it feels great on my skin.” He tilted up his head to show the side of his jaw where the scruffy beard revealed red skin, as if plunged into hot water, yet not beset with a boil. “It was sunny when I set out after you.”

      “Is that why you keep a beard? To protect as much of your face as you can?”

      “No. I hate this stuff.” He stroked the thick black facial hair. “I just haven’t gotten to a barbershop lately. They don’t keep the same hours as I do.” He rapped the air in the exact position of the threshold, and his hand did not penetrate the invisible barrier to Lark’s side. “Pretty please? I promise I won’t bite. And I’m getting soggy.”

      “I thought we had a truce? Me not stabbing you. You not biting me.”

      “It makes me feel special to know you intend to hold good on that.” All kinds of snark in that statement.

      The vampire winced as heavy raindrops spattered his face.

      Lark sighed and stepped back. She would not invite him in. That was insanity. Yet he looked so pitiful. Like a wet kitten scamming for a pat on the head. If she even began to relate him to the homeless menagerie she’d helped in the past…

      “You’re not hearing tunes right now?” she wondered.

      “I’d hardly call them tunes. But no, no cats screeching in my brain. The whispers are there. Always prodding me. You going to invite me in?”

      “I have no reason to.”

      “Can’t we be civil to each other during the truce? I want to get to know you, Lark.”

      “I don’t understand why.”

      “Because you’re pretty, and feisty. And maybe I came so I can get my shirt back from you.”

      “It’s not here. It was torn and—” had no scent beyond the smoke, which had frustrated her “—not wearable.”

      “It’s one of few I own.”

      Struck by that confession, Lark swallowed back surprising guilt. Maybe the guy was homeless? And she’d taken his best shirt? Because what he was wearing now didn’t look much better. The linen scarf and turtleneck looked thin. Though there were no holes in the jacket and he didn’t smell like smoke now.

      “Please,” he said. He shook his head like a dog against the wet, yet it was that erratic shake that clued Lark he battled inner demons. “She’s dangerous!” The vampire chuckled lowly, and slapped his arms across his chest as if to stave off the insane mirth.

      “I am dangerous. And you…” she started.

      Baffled her. Yet at the same time, the man’s presence tugged at some inner threads that coiled about her heart, threads she’d thought severed and the ends singed.

      Before her better judgment could strangle her conscience, Lark invited the vampire inside. Because he looked pathetic standing there with his goggles and burned skin and dripping hair. Damn her, but she’d never been able to walk past a stray kitten, either.

      Rook would have harsh words for her if he discovered she’d invited a vampire into one of the Order’s safe houses. Hell, the man would speak with his fist. He had never been averse to punching her while training.

      Lark closed the door but clenched the doorknob, clenching her jaw as tightly as her fist. What was she doing? Had such merciless training taught her nothing? Getting friendly with a vampire—not even with the excuse to cozy up to the subject—was strictly forbidden. Vamps were known to charm and manipulate, yet beneath the sometimes sexy—or crazy—exterior, they were nothing but deadly predators.

      Domingos wandered to the couch, but before he could sit she asked him not to. He flicked her a wondering look over his shoulder.

      “You’re filthy,” she stated. “Your clothes look like something you dragged out of a Dumpster, and your hair…Hell. Why don’t you clean yourself up?”

      He shoved his hands into his pockets and, head down, simply stood there.

      And Lark’s shoulders wilted. Why must she be so cruel? The alley cat only wanted to be picked up and stroked, not scolded for his appearance. The man wasn’t all there in the head. He probably didn’t even comprehend his tattered attire. Fashion couldn’t be a concern if he had in mind only to slay werewolves and, hell—to survive.

      Lark straightened. This knight wasn’t going to abandon her hard-earned training at the first pitiful meow from a stray. “Don’t you have wolves to slay?”

      “Thought I’d enjoy my free day,” he muttered, looking longingly at the СКАЧАТЬ