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

“Stay here,” she heard herself say.

“If you need me, let me know.”

She nodded in a distracted way and went over to the flagstone path. Following the gray and cranberry pattern up to the door, she swallowed hard.

“Rick?” she said loudly. “It’s me, can I come in—”

The sound of the gun going off was so loud, it rang in her ears.

“Rick!”

As the echo of the boom! faded, she rushed inside and skidded on the rug in the parlor. Her breath was loud in her ears, and she looked around in a panic, barely noticing the furniture.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God …” She kept repeating the words, a mantra that prevented her from panting and going light-headed.

“Rick?”

Walking forward, she went into the kitchen in the back. No messes, no clutter, no dishes in the sink or things out on the counter. It was too neat, like he’d put everything in order before he’d left—because he hadn’t expected to ever come back.

The house was the polar opposite of Peter’s—and yet she felt like they were just different sides to an evil coin.

The gunpowder smell reached her nose as she was turning to leave the kitchen. And that was when she saw through a narrow doorway … a dark room full of bookshelves. With the drapes all pulled, a computer screen was its only source of illumination, the ghostly blue glow drawing her forward.

Beneath her feet, the floorboards creaked, and as sweat broke out on her forehead, she brushed it away with her sleeve. Her lungs struggled to pump, and with her throat as tight as it was, she had to open her mouth and suck air in.

As soon as she stepped through into the study, she saw the feet sticking out from the far side of the desk.

Rick’s running shoes were lax, the treads muddy, the toes out to the sides.

“Rick,” she choked as she leaped forward—

The shotgun had been dropped on his chest, as if he had been sitting on the floor when he’d pulled the trigger. And it was obvious he had put the muzzle in his mouth—

Crashing down beside him, she covered her own mouth. Then she wrenched to the side, planted her palms on the rug, and dry heaved.

With eyes squeezing shut, she continued to see the details of the face with horrible clarity, the jaw vaporized, the nose gone, one of the eyes hanging loose.

Her friend, the man she had known and worked beside, the vet she respected and valued, was no more.

And it felt like all her fault—

Warm hands drew her back, and she collapsed into the compassion being offered, sobs racking her torso as she was held against a strong chest. With her head angled away from the horror, and her body supported, she couldn’t think of a reason to pull herself together, and as she let out a moan, a low, deep voice spoke to her in soothing syllables.

Although she couldn’t follow the words, Daniel’s murmuring was the only thing that kept her on the planet.

He was still holding her when Eastwind walked in.

“We haven’t touched anything,” she heard Daniel say. “And he pulled the trigger just as she got to the open front door.”

Lydia intended to lift her head and speak.

But in the end, she had no voice.



Later that day, much later, Lydia walked to work.

After everything that happened, she needed the fresh air, and with her car at Paul’s Garage, she had no other option than showing up on the back of Daniel’s bike.

Considering Candy was the only person on-site, it probably would have been okay, but she felt like she had to breathe by herself for a while. God, there seemed to be fifty percent less oxygen in the atmosphere than there usually was.

As she went along the side of the county road, she was aching from head to foot, proof, she supposed, of the mind/body connection: She wasn’t injured. She hadn’t overexercised. She wasn’t sick. But her muscles throbbed as if she had been put in a tumble jar, no surface on her left unbattered.

She and Daniel had stayed for a couple of hours at Rick’s house, out on his lawn, in the sunshine. She had remained sitting up, her arms balanced on her knees until her elbows had lost feeling and so had her dangling hands. Beside her, Daniel had stretched out flat on the mostly brown grass, his legs crossed at the ankles, one arm under his head. He had been like a dozing dog, lifting his lids at sounds that were outside the bandwidth of chirping birds, occasional cars out on the county road, and dim conversation inside the house.

The two of them had watched the other sheriff’s officers come. Had witnessed the coroner arriving in her boxy van. And when it had come time for the black body bag to be removed from the house on a gurney, she and Daniel had gotten to their feet.

It had been incomprehensible that Rick Marsh had been alive just that morning, in the veil. At that fence line. With a bomb in a duffel bag.

But some things shouldn’t be easy to make sense of.

Sheriff Eastwind was the only other one who had stayed the whole time. And during one of the lulls, he had taken their statements. Around noontime, she and Daniel had finally left, with him dropping her off at her house before he’d gone into the WSP for a shower.

They hadn’t said much. He seemed to understand that she needed space.

Not like it had helped. At all.

Back at her house, she had eaten some cereal and discovered she was ravenously hungry. An old box of Near East’s rice pilaf had solved that problem in a calorically dense, nutritionally deficient kind of way. And as she’d sat down to eat, she’d thought of Daniel and his health kick …