Twisted Little Games [Book 2] by Dee Palmer

Author:Dee Palmer [Palmer, Dee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Book Two
Publisher: Dee Palmer
Published: 2018-03-04T06:00:00+00:00

Cass appears at the door as Angus’s truck motors to a nosy halt outside the lodge gate. He drops whatever he was holding and rushes from the front door to my side of the truck. His eyes narrow when he clocks my dishevelled state.

“Christ, are you all right? What happened? I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“Would you stop? I’m fine. Twisted ankle and a little dehydrated, nothing a hot bath and a few glasses of wine can’t fix.” He pulls the door open, and it creaks and drops a little on its hinges with only the stubborn rust holding it together. I lift my bottom to allow him to slide his arms under and around me. He lifts me carefully from the truck, cradling me against his body like I’m some recovered precious treasure. He scowls at Angus as if somehow it was the old man’s fault.

“Angus saved me a long walk home, so no need to give him the evils.”

“He’s seen you half naked; he’s lucky he’s alive.” He grumbles low and menacing, the vibrations ripple from his body to mine.

“Thank you, Angus.” I call over my shoulder as Atticus strides off without a backward glance, slamming the front door as soon as we are safely inside.

“A little dramatic don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.” His face darkens, and I shiver from more than the icy chill in his demeanour.

“What’s wrong? Atticus, you’re scaring me.” He places me on the sofa in the living room, the lumpy cushions sag around my body and the dark shadow from Atticus looming makes me shiver.

“You got this.” He picks a cream handwritten envelope from his back pocket, holding it in front of my face and as far away from his body as is physically possible without dropping it.

“And?”

“It’s from him.”

“Him who?”

“There’s another him, besides me?” His lips thin in a tight, sarcastic smile.

“Logan, how do you know? Did you open it?” I swipe the envelope from his hands, and he seems to bristle with irritation.

“No, I didn’t, I wanted to but thought you might not like that.”

“Ya think!?” I snark.

“I’m trying here, Tia,” he snaps back.

“Yes…you are, very.” His jaw tightens and he steps away, his hands flexing into fists, tension radiating off his broad shoulders in seismic waves.

“I’ll get some ice for your ankle and run you a bath.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t move from here until I’ve checked you over,” he clips, but I’m already distracted by the letter burning my fingertips. He walks out and hovers at the threshold, and his shoulders sag when I pick at the edge of the letter. My heart rate has kicked up, and my butterflies feel like pterodactyls.

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