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

“This way,” she said as she headed off without him.

The dirt path she set them on was to humans as that bumpy lane was to vehicles, a single-file cramper that challenged the width of his shoulders. Up ahead of him, she ducked and held back the branches that cut across their way, her body lithe and assured, flexible and strong. The air was cool and damp, smelling of the earth and growing things.

And Eau d’Bad Fucking Idea.

Then again, he was the one who had pushed the issue of popping that glass pane. The difference, he argued with himself, was that he wasn’t pulling a revisit to the scene of their minor crime.

Minor, that was, compared to whatever had been done to the barn’s owner.

That waterfall bathroom was a cover-up to a murder if he’d ever seen one.

“Just a little further,” she whispered after they’d gone a good three hundred yards or so.

As she rerouted once again, the craggy bushes thinned out some and she drew him over to a thick oak. At first, he wasn’t sure what she was doing—but then he saw the two-by-fours hammered into the trunk. The camouflaged deer stand was mounted about twenty feet from the ground, and she started up the ladder like she was a cat, climbing without a pause.

He followed tight behind her.

And tried not to look at what … was directly above his head. ’Cuz not only was eyeing her backside indiscreet and arguably a letch-move, it sure as shit was inappropriate considering they were about to spy on people.

Not a time to get the sex on.

Up top, the stand was about ten feet long and five feet wide, with walls that were tall enough to cover even his bulky crouch. And what do you know, the view was perfect, the tops of the pines breaking and providing a clear shot … to the back of that renovated barn.

Where there was plenty going on: A man in casual clothes with a video camera up on his shoulder was standing at the back door next to a woman in a polished-looking red skirt and blazer. Both were leaning in to inspect the open doorway.

I closed that, Daniel thought. That door had been closed when he and Lydia had left.

The WNDK folks started talking to each other intensely. Then the woman took out her cell phone.

“They’re calling the police,” he said.

“Sheriff,” Lydia murmured.

“Can we go back to the car now?” When she shook her head, he leaned in closer to her. “We don’t want to be up here when the sheriff comes.”

“This isn’t part of Peter’s property. This is Bessie Farlan’s husband’s tract of land. We have every right to be here.”

“Do you like living on the edge?”

“No,” she said. “I hate it.”

Daniel sat back on his ass, and double-checked that what was under him was, in fact, as strong as it seemed to be. Fortunately, everything appeared to be holding. Then again, it had probably been calibrated to hold two beer-gutted shotgun slingers and their twelve packs of high-test Budweiser.

“I really think we’ve seen enough,” he said.

“They’ve called Eastwind,” she muttered as she focused through a break in the boards. “And he’s going to do nothing. Goddamn him, I do not understand why he’s protecting Corrington.”

“Lydia, I know I’m sounding like a broken record here—”

“Fine,” she hissed as if to herself. “I’ll just do the damn legwork. I’ll find the evidence—or whatever the hell it takes. But I’m not going to stand by and let those people—”

“Lydia.”

“—ruin this land. I don’t care what they do to me or how they try to scare me—”

Daniel frowned as he plugged in to what she was saying. “Wait, what? Have they done something to you?”

As she continued to mutter while staring at the barn, he tapped her on the shoulder. When she finally looked away from the newscaster and cameraman, he took Lydia’s hand to make sure she paid attention.

“What did they do to you.” He put his palm up as she opened her mouth. “No, you don’t fucking lie to me. You brought me into this. You don’t get to start editing the story now.”

Her eyes went back to the barn, her brows down, her lips in a tight line. As a breeze came up, her ponytail was swept in his direction and he caught a whiff of her shampoo.

“You can trust me,” he said softly.

Her laugh was short. “Weren’t you the one who just told me not to trust anybody?”

“I wasn’t referring to myself.”

“Well, I still haven’t checked your references.” This was spoken absently. Like it was a mental note that had just popped up as a reminder on her proverbial brain screen. “I don’t know you.”

“You wanted me to come with you for a reason. That had nothing to do with the gross weight of those invitations.”

When she crossed her arms over her chest and didn’t respond, he took out his phone. Going into his contacts, he called up a number, hit send, and held the cell out to her.

“Here,” he prompted when she just stared at the thing.

“Who did you call?”

“Take it. It’s for you.”

Her hand was shaking as she reached forward, and he had a thought that he was pushing her too hard. And then he decided no. She could take it. She might be scared, but she wasn’t running.