Wicked (A Wicked Trilogy 1)

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Ren called.

Brighton didn't pause for one second. "Just leave. Please leave."

Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I bit back a curse as I heard the back door slam shut. "Oh God, that didn't end well."

Ren was quiet as I turned to him. He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed on the broken glass, the spilled tea . . . and the blood. I took a step toward him and spoke low. "Part of me wants to think that what Merle said at the end meant nothing, but I don't think that's the case, is it?"

Casting a sideways glance at me, he gave a curt shake of his head. Dread formed, taking root. "You haven't told me everything."

"No."

Several feelings rushed me at once, and I didn't know what to feel. Disappointment and anger were at the top of the heap. I trusted him, but there were also a lot of things I hadn't told him, so it was a pot meet kettle moment, and I struggled to rise above it and boy, that was hard, because I wanted to punch him in the arm. I wasn't the bigger, better kind of person on most days, so I was proud of myself when I held it together. "Is there really such a thing as a halfling? What are you really here for, Ren?"

Tipping his head back, he let out a weary sigh and then nodded to himself. "We should leave."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what the hell is really going on."

He turned to me. "I will tell you everything, even if it gets me killed."

"Killed?"

"Yeah, it's that big of a deal, Ivy. So I'm not going to do it here. We need to go someplace to talk. You live nearby."

Part of me wanted to dig in my feet, but we did need to leave the courtyard so Brighton didn't have to worry about us setting off her mother even more, but I couldn't take him home. Not when there wasn't any time to warn Tink.

I really needed to get a house phone with voicemail so I could leave him messages. That was getting added to my to-do list.

"We can't go to my place," I said, ignoring the sharp look he gave me.

He studied me a moment. "Then we can go to my place."

Nervousness caused my belly to tumble. His place? "I don't know about that."

"Thought you trusted me?" A wry smile appeared on his face.

I lifted my chin. "That was before I apparently discovered that you haven't been a hundred percent honest with me."

"Nothing between us has changed, Ivy. There are—were—some things I just couldn't tell you—that you wouldn't just believe." Sighing, he thrust his hand through his hair. "I'm not going to have this conversation in public. It's my place or yours."

My place was out of the question because I had no idea what Tink was doing right now. "Whatever you say, Renald." I walked past him briskly, heading toward the porch so we could grab our helmets. "It's your place."

He shot me a mortified look. "I really wish you wouldn't call me that."

I snorted. "People in hell want ice water."

"People in hell are dead and thirst is probably the least of their concerns."

Climbing onto the porch, I shook my head as I glanced at the closed door. Guilt prickled under my skin, making me feel icky. Merle would've never injured herself if we hadn't come here today, but I couldn't go back and change history.

And I had a feeling after this conversation with Ren, I'd never be able to go back to the way things were before.

~

Ren lived in one of the old warehouses that had been recently remodeled into studio and one-bedroom apartments. With its own parking garage, wide industrial elevator, and hallways with exposed steel beams in the ceiling and brick walls, the place had an eccentric, modern feel to it. Definitely on the upscale side, and if the Order didn't pay so well, I doubted Ren could afford the kind of rent this place demanded.

His apartment was on the sixth floor, right outside the elevator, and when he opened the door, I was greeted to a rather sparse place with an open floor plan and the fresh clean scent that reminded me of the detergent Holly used to wash our clothes in.

There was a wide sectional in the living room, a black coffee table with a glass top situated near a large flat-screen TV hung on the gray and white brick wall. Other than a picture on the corner of the coffee table, that was it in terms of anything with a personal touch.

I glanced into the kitchen. All the appliances were stainless steel and new. It was a chef's kitchen, with a double oven and a shiny hood descending from the ceiling over a gas grill top, but there wasn't a table, just two barstools tucked under the kitchen island. On the other side of the living room were two doors. One door I assumed led to a bedroom, and I guessed the other was the bathroom.

It didn't appear as if anyone lived here.

Once inside, Ren shrugged off his backpack and placed it by the couch. Moving to the coffee table, he scooped up an empty bowl. The spoon rattled around as he bent again, grabbing a deep blue coffee cup.

He was cleaning up. That was kind of cute. And normal.

I stepped toward the coffee table, eyeing the picture. It was a family photo, had to be of him and his parents. He was younger, maybe sixteen, and with the wide smile and dimples, he looked adorable standing between a man and woman who he resembled greatly. A snowcapped mountain was in the background, but they were wearing t-shirts. The picture fascinated me—their smiling faces, happy eyes.

Glancing over his shoulder at me, he walked toward the kitchen. "Would you like something to drink?" he offered. "I suggest a refreshment that would be a bit stronger than tea for this."

Tearing my gaze away from the photo, I watched him place the bowl and cup near the sink. He strolled to the fridge, the muscles under the tattoo rippling as he opened the door. "I don't drink."

"Mind if I have a beer?"

I shook my head. "Not at all."

"Make yourself comfortable."

As Ren rustled around in the fridge, I headed toward the door I assumed was the bathroom, but when I opened it, I was staring at the neatly stacked sheets and towels. "You can fold fitted sheets?"

From the kitchen, Ren replied, "Yeah."

I scowled. "Are you even human? No mere mortal can fold a fitted sheet."

"I have mad skills."

That he did.

"May I ask why you're looking in my closet?" he asked, tone light and teasing.

I closed the door, cheeks hot. "I was actually looking for the bathroom."

"Through my bedroom. Not very convenient for guests or my privacy." He swaggered back into the living room, a bottle of beer in one hand and a can of soda in the other. Placing my can on the table, he walked over to the second door and opened it. "Just through here, to your left. The other door is the closet, and no, it's nowhere near as neat as the linen closet. I'll wait for you out here."

Entering Ren's bedroom made me feel weird. I hadn't been in a guy's bedroom since Shaun, and it was like walking through their inner sanctum. Like with the living room and kitchen though, there really were no personal artifacts. Just a huge king-sized bed with a thick, gray comforter left in a pile, a dark wood dresser, a nightstand, and a bookshelf—a fully loaded bookshelf. I wanted to check out what kind of titles he had, but I didn't think it would be cool of me to loiter in his bedroom. I quickly entered a neat master bathroom, did my thing, and then made my way back to the living room.

Ren sat on one side of the sectional, his legs kicked up onto the coffee table. His shoes were off, feet bare. As I picked up my soda, I couldn't help but notice he had sexy feet, and the moment that thought occurred, I decided I needed to get out more if I thought feet were sexy.

I sat against the arm of the sectional, kicking off my sandals and tucking my feet under me. He watched me out of the corner of his beautiful, thickly lashed eyes while he tipped the neck of the bottle to his lips. "I like seeing you in my place," he said. "Just thought I'd share that."

Stupidly flustered, I ignored that comment. "I think we need to start with this whole halfling thing," I decided.

"Good choice. Get the crazy out