Page 162 of Savage Hearts

A tentative knock on the door pulls me out of my head.

I’m in one of the bedrooms in this new place of Sloane and Declan’s, wearing a groove in the wood floor with my pacing.

Wearing a groove in my brain going over and over everything Mal said to me before we left for town.

He knew I’d insist on coming with him. He also knew I’d insist on not staying in the truck at the market. He could predict exactly what I’d do at every turn, and now I’m pissed at myself for being so damn obvious.

I’m more pissed at him for not telling me what happened with Pakhan.

What was so horrible that he had to send me away?

“Come in.”

Sloane opens the door, comes inside, and closes the door behind her. She leans against it, staring at me as I continue to pace back and forth at the end of the bed.

“Hey, Smalls.”

“Hollywood.”

“You look … different.”

“It’s the contacts.”

“It’s everything.”

“Really? That’s where we’re starting? With my looks?”

She throws her hands in the air. “Where am I supposed to start?”

I stop pacing and look at her. Dark circles nest in the hollows under her eyes. Her hair is lank and disheveled. I’ve never seen her appear anything less than perfectly groomed before. Even when she was fifteen years old and sporting a black mohawk, it was artfully gelled.

That she’s obviously been worried sick about me melts some of the ice off the tip of the iceberg I feel for her.

In a softer voice, I say, “I’m okay. Mal took very good care of me. And thank you for sending Spider to rescue me, even though I didn’t need rescuing.”

She considers me in silence for a moment, then murmurs, “No, you don’t seem like you do.”

We gaze at each other across the room until she says, “You’re missing a kidney?”

I nod. “And my spleen.”

She whispers, “Jesus.”

“Yeah, getting shot is a barrel of laughs.”

She rubs a hand over her face, sighing. “Spider’s a wreck about it.”

“He doesn’t need to be. Except for the stupid lightning bolt scar and the occasional nightmare, I’m fine.”

“Lightning bolt scar?”

I lift my shirt and pull down the waistband of my trousers. Sloane’s eyes widen. Her face pales. She puts a hand over her mouth and stares at my stomach like she’s trying not to puke.

Remembering how Mal described it, I mutter, “Not bad, my ass.”

“Oh my god, Riley.”

Lowering my shirt, I wave a hand. “It looks worse than it was.” That’s a lie, but she doesn’t seem like she can handle the truth at the moment, so I’m going with fibbing.