The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(17)

Coming out of a corner, she stopped.

Up ahead, there was a stretch of darkness, the lights strung along on the ceiling extinguished.

Nyx jumped back out of sight of that which she could not see. Putting her shoulder blades against the damp wall of the cave-like cutout in the earth, she willed the light above her off—

The hands that grabbed her and pushed her face-first into the wall were hard, biting into her upper arms. And before she could react, the gun was taken. Her flashlight, too. Then her pack was ripped off and a palm clamped on the back of her neck to hold her in place.

Not a word was spoken, and the speed was such that it seemed to all happen between one heartbeat and the next.

As Nyx was pinned to the walling, she grunted and fought against the male. The punishment for the attempt to get free was an even greater pressure on her nape—and the muzzle of that gun pressed to her temple.

“You do not belong here.”

The voice was whisper-quiet and very, very deep. There was an accent to it as well, but she didn’t waste time trying to place it.

“Let me go,” she said tightly.

“How did you get in here?” There was the draw of an inhale. “And you killed one of them, didn’t you. I can smell the blood on you.”

Before she could calibrate a response, a soft, rhythmic sound registered in her ears.

“Damn it,” the male hissed.

And that was when her chaotic brain put a definition to that noise. Marching. There were a number of people marching in unison. And going by how the sound was getting louder, they were on the approach.

“Don’t make a sound,” the male voice ordered.

As the pressure eased up on her neck, Nyx did some quick math. Whoever this was had her weapons and considerable control over her—for the moment. But she didn’t think he was a guard. Which meant he was a better bet than those boots that were heading her way. Like she had a choice, though?

She looked over her shoulder at the male—

In the dim shadows, she couldn’t believe his eyes. Blue-green. They were brilliant, glowing blue-green eyes that reminded her of pictures she’d seen on TV of the tropical sea.

The rest of her first impression came in fast: Black hair pulled back. Big shoulders, tall body.

Lips that shouldn’t have even been on her notice list.

As he pulled her arm, she tripped, but regained her balance quick. He took her back the way she had come, the lights hanging from the ceiling going out as they approached and coming back on as they went by. And then he stopped short.

“Here,” he said softly.

There was a whirring sound, and then a different smell came to her nose. Before she could place it, she was pushed forward into a pitch-black space and the whirring came again.

“They’re going to kill you if they find you,” he whispered as they were closed in together. “Especially with the blood of one of their own on you.”

In the sensory void, his disembodied voice made everything feel like a dreamscape, and Nyx’s eyes strained against the darkness, even though there was no point. Meanwhile, outside wherever the hell they were, the sound of those multiple sets of boots hitting the hard ground in coordination grew louder.

“I want my gun back,” she said as the guards seemed to pass by.

After the marching sounds faded, a candle flared.

Nyx blinked in the warm glow, and was glad she’d gotten a look at his peepers out in the tunnel. Otherwise, she might have shown surprise. Or . . . something else that would have been really stupid to share.

Still, she was captivated. His stare seemed to be backlit from inside his skull, unlike anything she had ever seen before. Jewels. Paraíba tourmalines. Only more beautiful than that.

She could not look away.

In her peripheral vision, other details of him registered. He had a freckle under the eye on the left, and its contours were unusual. Like a heart. His clothing was dark gray and loose, but not rags. He was clean and relatively well-fed. His scent was . . .

She refused to let herself think about his scent. Nope. That was not going to help things.

“We need to get you out of here,” he said grimly.

As his words sank in, she had a thought that she wanted just a little more time to stare at him so she could memorize all the details of his face. But that was ridiculous.

“I’m not leaving,” she countered.



The Jackal closed his eyes briefly. In spite of the reality of his own situation, and the overriding focus it mandated, he had a thought that he must get this female out of the prison. With her strange-looking clothes, her provisions, and the flashlight he’d stripped from her, it was clear she didn’t belong here. And with what she had done to one of the Command’s guards? If they got a hold of her with those bloodstains on her jacket, she was going to learn things about pain that would make death look like a gift.

She was not his responsibility, however, and he was not in a position to take on any further ones. And it wasn’t like she was fragile or weak.

On the contrary. The female was meeting him right in the eye, and even though she’d been disarmed, she was ready to fight. The resolve was in her braced stance, her unwavering stare, the fists that were up in front of her chest. Her hair, which was black, was pulled back, the tail of it long enough to curl over her shoulder and extend below her collarbones. Her eyes were the color of brandy in good lighting.