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Ashamed.

And that pissed her off because she had nothing to be ashamed of. She was doing the best she could with the crappy hand she'd been dealt. She was strong because she had to be. There had never been anyone standing beside her to pick up the slack when things got too hard. No one to lean on but herself.

So why in the hell did it suddenly matter what some man she barely knew thought?

Misty didn't have an answer for that, and maybe that bothered her most of all. She didn't want to care what Vin thought of her or the way she lived. Caring gave people power, and she'd learned a long time ago that giving someone that kind of power usually came back to bite you in the ass.

With a sigh, she glanced around the small room. It wasn't much, but at least when she closed the door, she could pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. The Murder, Griffin and all the other bullshit waiting outside could stay there for a while. She'd deal with it tomorrow because tonight she was done. Mentally and physically, she was fucking done.

Walking over to the small table in the corner where she kept what little clothing she owned neatly stacked, Misty found a dry shirt and pair of shorts. She quickly changed, tossing the damp clothes near the door. She'd wash them later and hang them outside to dry. Add that to the long list of exciting things she had planned for tomorrow.

Her gaze landed on the guitar propped carefully against the wall, and some of the tightness in her chest eased. It was the only thing she owned that was worth anything, at least money-wise, but even if someone offered her a fortune for it, she'd never sell it. She'd go hungry first.

Reaching for the guitar, Misty carried it over to the pallet she'd made into a bed and sat down. Running her fingers lightly over the strings, she adjusted the guitar comfortably against her before playing a few soft chords. She was pretty much self-taught, learning by listening, watching whenever she got the chance and spending countless hours figuring out the rest on her own. She'd never cared if she was doing everything the right way. If it sounded right to her, that was good enough.

Music had always been her escape. Her only real escape. No matter where she was or how bad life got, the second her fingers touched the strings, everything else seemed to fade away for a little while.

And right now, she desperately needed everything to disappear.

She started with something slow, letting her fingers find the familiar chords without really thinking about what she was playing. It had a country feel to it, but darker, with a little blues mixed in. The kind of music that somehow made sadness sound beautiful instead of pathetic.

Closing her eyes, Misty began to sing softly.

Her voice started low, almost hesitant, before growing stronger as she lost herself in the music. She didn't think about Griffin or the Murder. She didn't think about Tucker, the rent she needed to pay or whether Billie Ann would actually have a job for her tomorrow.

And she definitely didn't think about a dark-haired man with chocolate-brown eyes that could suddenly turn a brilliant gold.

Okay, maybe she thought about that one a little.

Misty frowned but kept playing, refusing to let Vin invade the one place she could usually escape everything. Unfortunately, her mind wasn't cooperating. She could still see him standing there surrounded by six Crows, looking completely unconcerned about the odds against him. Then those eyes had changed, and she'd been so fascinated by them she'd almost forgotten she was naked in a lake.

Almost.

“What kind of Shifter are you?” she whispered, her fingers never stopping.

She'd find out eventually. Assjacket wasn't that damn big.

Shaking her head, Misty changed the rhythm, picking up the tempo because apparently slow and moody wasn't doing shit to keep her mind where it belonged. The new sound had more attitude to it, something with a little country, a little rock and enough bite to make her smile as her voice followed along.

For now, she was perfectly happy sitting on her makeshift bed, playing to an audience of absolutely no one while the rest of the world stayed on the other side of the door.

Sitting not far from where he’d left Misty, Vin still had a clear view of the shack. He’d tried to walk away. Made it a whole twenty feet before stopping and turning around. There was no fucking way he could leave her out here alone and unprotected, especially after what had happened at the lake. So instead, he sat watching the place like he was on some kind of stakeout, fighting the urge to go pound on the door—which would probably fall off its hinges—and take her somewhere safer.

“Jesus,” he hissed, running a hand down his face.

“No, it’s Bruce.”

Vin’s head snapped toward the voice coming out of the darkness as Bruce appeared.

Great. That was all he needed. A drunk-ass cat. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Bruce sat down next to him and stared at the shack. “Damn. I was hoping this wasn’t the place she was talking about. Jack Crow is a fucking dick. A strong breeze could knock that stack of wood right on top of her.”

Vin’s eyes went from Bruce back to the shack. “You knew where she was staying?”

“No, but I figured it was either this place or the one closer to the entrance of the Crow property. We’re on the backside of it.” Bruce shook his head in disgust. “As soon as I puked a few times and got rid of a hairball or two, I came to make sure she got home okay.” He glanced up at Vin. “Guess I wasn’t the only one.”

“I was leaving anyway and told Rafe I’d see her home,” Vin explained, then frowned. Why in the hell was he explaining himself to a cat?