Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven #1) by J.R. Ward

“I don’t trust anyone.”

He nodded. “I knew you were smart. And either you call the sheriff now, or I’m taking care of the breaking part of our entering.”

“That’s trespassing.”

“No. Really? Draw me a diagram.” He stepped back. “You decide on the count of three or I make the choice for us.”

“The doors are locked—”

“One.”

“Seriously, Peter could be in there—”

“Then why hasn’t he answered. Two.”

“And he’s the type that will call the sheriff—”

“Or you can. Three.”

When she just stared at him … and then gave him a nod, he took off his jacket. Wrapped up his fist with the sleeve.

“Wait, what are you—”

With one decisive punch, he broke the lower right pane in the door’s window, the glass square popping free of its puttied confines, the crash on the other side loud as a curse in church as it shattered on the varnished pine floor.

Reaching in, Daniel did something to some kind of dead bolt or knob, and then he opened things up.

As he held the door wide, he said in a calm voice, “Do you want to go in first or shall I.”

Lydia blinked. And then rubbed her eyes.

You know, just on the outside chance this was a really weird dream and there was a possibility she would wake up.

When she dropped her hands to find that, yup, he’d actually opened Peter Wynne’s door, she tried to imagine calling Eastwind and his buddies in those state police outfits. Once they walked into the house? She was never going to get any answers.

Hell, once the law stepped onto the property, they were going to make her leave—after they asked her a whole bunch of questions she didn’t want to answer.

“Ladies first,” she said gruffly.



Daniel was surprised that Lydia took the lead. He’d expected her to let him be the tip of the proverbial spear. But there were benefits to her going ahead.

He was able to take his gun out and keep it by his thigh without explaining anything to her—

“Oh, God …” She recoiled and put her elbow up to her face, vampire style. “That smell.”

The stench hit him next and even he reared back. “Yeah, we got us some old sweaty trash right there.”

“Why is it so hot in here?” She waved a hand in front of herself. “It’s like eighty degrees.”

“Fire’s been left on.”

“Peter?” she called out. “Hello?”

The whole first floor was open, the kitchen over to the left, the seating area that had been frat-boy’d with all the dirty dishes and trash to the right. As Lydia wandered across to the gas-fed stone hearth, he checked out the sink, which was full of more plates and mugs. On the brand-new Viking stove, there was a pot on a burner with something vaguely meat-ish in it—at least he was thinking it was beef. The shit was so desecrated and left-for-dead that he wasn’t sure exactly what kind of protein it had been.

“Long time, no clean,” he muttered.

All of the countertops were smudged with grease and grime … broken eggshells were scattered right on the trash bin lid … and something spotted the floor by the bottom of the refrigerator.

“What happened to him?” Lydia said as she picked a flapped-out magazine off the floor, put it to rights, and placed it on a side table.

Glancing around at what else he could see of the house’s interior, it was clear that not only had everything been renovated, it had all been professionally decorated, too, the red and white color scheme carried into the dining room and the family room out front. The vibe was fake rustic, the honey-colored pine floors glowing with fresh varnish, the exposed beams and pine wall paneling gleaming, the smell of new carpets and still-curing-paint a pleasant undertone to the rank nasty of the garbage.

Someone had written an awful lot of checks to get this homey look.

And they’d done it recently.

“Something was burned in here,” Lydia said from the hearth.

Daniel tucked his gun and went over to her. As he passed by the sofas, he noted that they were almost entirely deconstructed, not just throw pillows cast around and out of place, but the cushions themselves.

The place was a stage set gone amok.

Lydia knelt down, opened the fireplace’s glass doors, and started pulling little fragments of charred white paper out of the blue and yellow flames.

With a burst forward, he snagged her wrist. “You want to get burned?”

“We need to know what it is—”

“Let it go.” He rubbed her fingers. “Whatever it was, it’s gone.”

Lydia cursed. Then tilted her head. “What is that?”

“It’s just the corners of paper—”

“No, that sound.”

As she stood up and looked toward the front of the barn, he tried to listen harder. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Dripping.” She started out for the dining room. “Something is dripping.”

Daniel didn’t hear it until they turned the corner. And then it was obvious. Drip … drip … drip …

Together, they went past a long, cottage-rough table with white upholstered chairs and a white runner, and a white, knobby rug under the setup.