Warrior Fae Trapped (Warrior Fae 1)

It had definitely come back for Charity. When it couldn’t find its easy prey, it had left for other attractions.

Not good.

“Why not leave her in the dorm?” Devon asked, picking up their conversation.

“Apparently some things cannot be tolerated.”

Devon thought he heard a little snark in that statement. Was she judging Samantha?

He leaned forward to get a glimpse of Charity’s face. Passive as always.

Why the hell was she giving him such a hard time when she’d let Samantha off so easily? He nearly asked, but a part of him feared the answer. For some reason, he didn’t want this woman to stand in judgment of him.

Any more than she already had, that was.

But he couldn’t let it go. “Why’d you move with her? Why didn’t you stay in the dorms?”

Charity looked up at him with a furrowed brow. “Are you kidding? Why did I leave the dorms…for a house?” She laughed softly and opened her top dresser drawer. “Samantha’s okay. When she isn’t trying to live up to other people’s expectations for snobbery, she’s mostly down-to-earth. I pay the same rent for a lot more space. I’d be a freaking dummy not to tag along.”

Devon had to agree. He’d hated the dorms.

He crossed the room and peeked through the curtain. “Your luck, you’d probably get another yup-yup anyway.”

“Exactly. One without any redeeming qualities. Like you.” Charity laughed, a carefree sound that bespoke of green fields and blooming flowers.

Devon shook his head, but he felt himself thawing. He wiped the pad of his finger across the desk and then rubbed it against his thumb. No dust. He shook the desk, and then stopped when it wobbled fiercely. She’d probably found it on the street. No frame held her full-sized bed, and besides a random marble and a few crystals, her one decorative item was a porcelain statue of a ballerina. The pink paint on the tutu was worn and faded. Cracks lined the legs and arms.

“Where’d you get the ballerina?” He touched it gently, feeling the cool surface, before glancing at the deserted hallway, just in case.

Charity shrugged. “It was my mom’s when she was a kid. She left it to me.”

Devon didn’t miss the tightness around her eyes and the tension in her shoulders. She was trying to hide some sort of vulnerability, he’d bet his life on it. Her mother hadn’t given it to her at all. That old statue was something her mother had left behind, much like Charity. Whereas Devon would’ve thrown the thing against the wall, followed by anything else within grabbing distance, Charity had clutched it to her heart in remembrance. She savored the memory of the woman who’d walked away.

Devon’s fists clenched and he ground his teeth. He turned toward the door. “Hurry up. The sun’s starting to set.”

“Jesus, don’t flip moods all that quickly, do you? Pretty even-keeled, then?”

Devon ignored her as she crossed to the closet, taking out three sweaters that looked old, faded, and moth-eaten. The way she delicately removed them, she might’ve been handling evening dresses. She folded them with care and tucked them into her duffel bag over the top of worn jeans and faded T-shirts. After that, the only thing left in the room was an ancient laptop.

It was then he realized what Andy had meant about being poor. Dirt poor. Those sweaters were her nice clothes. When she went out somewhere respectable, she wore faded jeans and one of those tatty sweaters.

Devon ran his hand through his hair, blindsided by sympathy.

She’d been left by her mother, then her first love, and still she trudged on. With nothing but her intelligence and determination.

It was commendable, which was probably why Roger had given her that weird smile.

Devon blew out an aggressive sigh and nearly punched the wall. He didn’t like when crap like this pushed past his barricades. It messed with his focus, which might get him thrown out of Roger’s pack. Why the hell had he been saddled with this detail? He was a greenie sub-alpha in a pack of college kids. He didn’t know the first thing about protecting someone, and he wasn’t great at keeping women happy, either. This sort of thing wasn’t in his wheelhouse, and even if it had been, someone as important as Charity apparently was needed a heavy hitter. Someone who had been in the trenches for a while. Someone who could throw down if Vlad came calling.

“You have a whole language made up of scoffs and grunts,” Charity said as she checked under her bed. “I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that I don’t speak it.”

“How much longer?” he asked.

The only thing left in sight was a picture in a cheap, fake silver frame. A haggard and worn woman looked out from a round, sun-damaged face. Her thin eyebrows hung low over her dark brown eyes. Pronounced crow’s-feet etched her skin and stress lines marred her forehead. For all that, her smile was large and radiant, with a sparkle in her eyes for the picture taker.