Marissa Meyer - Scarlet

A flurry of clucking startled Scarlet.

Setting the port on the counter, she peered out the window. Her stomach flipped.

The shadow of a man stretched across the yard, the gathered hens skittering away from him toward their coop.

As if sensing her, Wolf glanced up and spotted Scarlet in the window.

She spun away. Swallowing the rising panic, she ran into the foyer and snatched her grandmother’s shotgun from its corner beneath the stairs.

Wolf hadn’t moved by the time she’d thrown open the front door. The chickens were already growing familiar with the stranger, pecking around his feet in search of falling seed.

Scarlet settled the gun in her arms and released the safety.

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“What do you want?” she yelled, startling the hens away from him. The light from the house spilled around her onto the gravel. Her shadow shifted across the drive, almost brushing Wolf’s feet.

The madness from the fight was gone, and the bruises on his face were nearly invisible. He seemed calm and unconcerned with the gun, though he didn’t move toward her.

After a long silence, he raised both hands to either side of his head, open palmed. “I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you again.” As if to make amends, he backed away. Two, three steps.

“You have a gift,” she deadpanned. “Keep your hands up.”

His fingers twitched in acknowledgment.

Scarlet paced out from the door, but she stopped when the gravel bit into her bare feet. Her senses prickled, waiting for Wolf to make any sudden movement, but he was as still as the stone house behind her.

“I’ve already commed the police,” she lied, her thoughts stretching back to the portscreen left on the kitchen counter.

His eyes caught the light, and Scarlet suddenly remembered her dad sleeping upstairs. Was it too much to hope that her raised voice could dislodge him from his stupor?

“How did you get here?”

“Walked. Well, ran, mostly,” he said, hands still raised. The wind was making messy patterns in his hair. “Would you like me to leave?”

The question took her off guard. “I want you to tell me what you’re doing here. If you think I’m afraid of you—”

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

With a glare, she peered down the barrel to make sure she still had him in line.

“I wanted to talk about what you said at the fight. About the tattoo … and what happened to your grandmother. And your father.”

Scarlet clenched her jaw. “How did you find out where I live?”

His brow furrowed, as if in confusion. “Your ship has the name of your farm on it, so I looked it up. I don’t mean you any harm. It just seemed like you needed help.”

“ Help? ” Heat flared in her cheeks. “From the psychopath who tortured my dad? Who kidnapped my grandmother?”

“It wasn’t me,” he said, his tone unwavering. “There are other tattoos like mine. It was someone else.”

“Oh, really? Like you’re part of some cult or something?” The feathered body of one of the chickens pressed against her leg and she started, barely managing to keep the gun level.

“Or something,” he said with a flinching shrug. One foot crunched against the gravel.

“Don’t come any closer!” Scarlet yelled. The chicken clucked and dawdled away. “I will shoot, you know.”

“I know.” A flicker of kindness passed over him and he pointed at his temple. “You’ll want to aim for the head. That usually makes for a fatal shot. Or, if you’re feeling shaky, the torso. It’s a larger target.”

“Your head looks pretty big from here.”

He laughed—the expression changing everything about him. His stance relaxed, his face warmed.

A disgusted growl vibrated in Scarlet’s throat. This man had no right to be laughing, not when her grandmother was still out there.

Wolf dropped his arms and folded them over his chest. Before Scarlet could order them up again, he was speaking. “I’d been hoping to impress you last night, but it seemed to backfire on me.”

“I’m not usually impressed by men with anger management issues who kidnap my grandmother and follow me around and—”

“I didn’t kidnap your grandmother.” For the first time, his words were sharp, stealing the tirade out of Scarlet’s mouth. His attention fell down to the gaggle of chickens as they tramped around the door. “But if it really was someone with a tattoo like mine, I may be able to help figure out who did.”

“Why should I believe you?”

He took the question seriously, contemplating for a long while. “I have no proof other than what I told you last night. I’ve been in Rieux for nearly two weeks—they know me at the tavern, they know me at the fights. If your father were to see me, he wouldn’t recognize me. Nor would your grandmother.” He shifted his weight, like he was growing anxious from too long standing still. “I want to help.”

Frowning, Scarlet squinted down the double barrels. If he was lying, then this was one of the men who had taken her grandmother from her. He was cruel. He was evil. He deserved a bullet between his eyes.

But he was her only lead.

“You’ll tell me everything. Everything. ” Pulling her finger off the trigger, she lowered the shotgun so that it pointed instead at his thigh. A nonfatal target. “And you’ll keep your hands where I can see them at all times. Just because I’m letting you into this house doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Of course.” He nodded, all compliance. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Scarlet gestured with the gun for Wolf to come inside, glowering as he crept toward the landing. He seemed to brace himself, taking in the stucco walls and dark-stained staircase, before passing by her into the hallway. He had to duck so his head wouldn’t hit the door frame.

Scarlet kicked the door shut, refusing to take her eyes from Wolf, who stood still and hunched, his body compacting itself as well as it could. His attention shifted to the rotating digital photos on the wall that showed Scarlet as a child munching on raw peas from the garden, golden autumnal fields, her grandmother forty years younger in her first military uniform.

“This way.”

He followed her gesture into the kitchen. Scarlet glanced at the picture just as her grandmother vanished, before marching in after him.

She spotted her portscreen on the counter, still displaying a picture of an alpha male with his mate, and slipped it into her pocket.

Without turning her back on the street fighter, she propped the gun into a corner of cabinets and grabbed her red hoodie from the back of one of the chairs. She felt less vulnerable as she shoved her arms into the sleeves. Even more so when she snatched a carving knife from its block on the counter.

Wolf’s eyes flickered once to the knife, before taking in the rest of the kitchen. They landed on the wire basket beside the sink, his pupils widening with hunger.

Six glossy red tomatoes filled the basket.

Scarlet frowned as Wolf dropped his gaze.

“You must be hungry,” she muttered. “After all that running. ”

“I’m fine.”

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing at the table with the knife.

Wolf hesitated only for a moment before pulling out a chair. He didn’t scoot it back in as he sat, as if he wanted to give himself enough space to jump up and run if he had to.

“Hands where I can see them.”

He looked a breath away from amusement as he leaned forward and splayed his fingers on the edge of the table. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me, after last night.”

She scoffed. “Really, you can’t imagine?” She grabbed the cutting board and slammed it down on the table opposite from Wolf. “Would you like me to clue you in?”