Blood Kissed (Lizzie Grace 1)

He didn’t stop there, however, but marched me through another door into a long corridor. Six rooms ran off this, several of which were obviously cel

ls. Thankfully, he didn’t take me into one of those, but dumped my backpack on the counter of what looked like a storeroom, then guided me into a nearby room. It was large and square, and had little more than a table, four chairs, and a rather pristine-looking media hub on the wall.

I was rather unceremoniously thrust into one of the seats.

“Don’t move,” he all but growled.

I did as bid. There was no point in saying anything, because while he might want answers, the ones I could give him weren’t the ones he wanted to hear.

He walked across to the media unit, his strides long and loose-limbed. Though he was, like most wolves, rangy rather than muscular in build, his shoulders were nicely wide and his arms had just the right amount of muscle. My gaze slipped down his back to his butt. If he looked this good in baggy sweats, he’d look more than fine in a pair of jeans.

Hello, Belle said. This all sounds rather interesting.

Not when I’m tied up and about to be interrogated, it’s not.

From the thoughts I’ve heard, it sounds as if being tied up by that man might well be worth it.

You’re supposed to be concerned about my welfare, not having inappropriate thoughts about our ranger.

I’m not the one checking out his butt, Belle said. And that alone tells me you’re doing just fine right now.

Belle, rack off.

Her laughter spun through my thoughts and tugged a smile from my lips.

The ranger finished his fiddling and swung around to face me again. His blue eyes were icy, and his expression like stone.

He did his obligatory spiel about my rights, told me everything was being recorded, and then added, “State your name and address for the record, please.”

“Elizabeth Grace, currently living at fifty-eight Mostyn Street.”

Disbelief flickered across his strong features. “You’re living here? In town?”

“I believe that’s what I said, Ranger.” I paused, but couldn’t help adding, “And isn’t it mandatory when interrogating a suspect that you also state your name and rank?”

Annoyance momentarily overran the stoniness in his expression. “Aiden O’Connor, head ranger Faelan Reservation, currently interviewing Ms. Grace about the death of Karen Banks.”

So I was not only being interviewed by the boss of this whole shebang, but by one of the O’Connors—the original occupiers of this area before some long-ago government decided the three Victorian packs held too much land—and therefore power—between them, and had forcibly moved the other two into this territory. Of course, they hadn’t gone easily, and the resulting turmoil was the reason werewolves today were basically self-governing. In the end, it had been the only way to make both sides happy and avoid an all-out war. It had been witches who’d brokered that deal, which was perhaps why many packs to this day remained unhappy about the presence of witches on their land.

Being an O’Connor also explained his unusual hair coloring, as they were gray wolves who tended to run the entire gauntlet of that color rather than being the usual brown, black, or even red.

“Now,” he added, “tell me why you were in that forest.”

He pulled out the chair and sat down opposite. The thick veil of sorrow and anger that all but smothered his aura washed over me again, and it was so damn strong that for several seconds I couldn’t even breathe.

I leaned away even as I swallowed the desire to ask what the hell had happened to him. Doing so would only be a waste of words, as he didn’t look the type to share that sort of information with those he was close to, let alone a stranger. A witch.

“There’s little point in me answering your questions,” I said. “Because I really can’t answer them in the way you want me to.”

“I just want honesty.”

“And yet you won’t believe me if I am honest.”

His narrowed eyes glittered dangerously. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you hate witches and you desperately want to believe I’m guilty of this crime so that everything is tied up in a nice neat little bow.”

Though his expression didn’t change, I had a feeling I’d scored a point. “Actually, I don’t believe you’re responsible for Karen’s death, as you didn’t have the time to kill her before I arrived on the scene. I do, however, believe you know more than what you’ve already said. So tell me, for the record, why you were up there.”