The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(30)

Why does that matter, she thought. Even though she knew exactly why she was making the inquiry.

“Kane and Lucan. Two others. But they won’t come here. I told them to stay out.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Why do you think.”



The female—Nyx—looked to the falling water again, and as the Jackal recognized where her eyes were, he also knew where her thoughts had gone. She didn’t want to speak them out loud, and he respected that, but her scent was giving her away.

“No one will come here. You’re safe,” he said.

“I don’t feel safe.”

“You have your weapons.” He thought of Lucan. “And I’ve seen you use them.”

“I didn’t cut that male.”

“You would have if he’d moved.”

“True.” Her eyes returned to his own. “What is he?”

The Jackal debated playing dumb, but just shook his head instead. “That’s his story to tell, not mine.”

“So he’s not just a vampire.”

“Not my story.” He let his stare drift down to her lips. “Do you want to get into the water?”

“Are you going to stay here?”

“I’ll give you my back. If you want it.”

As he waited for her response, he reminded himself what this was all about. They were using each other, and it was a relief to set those boundaries. Meanwhile, inside his body, down to his very marrow, things stirred, things he had not felt in so long that he had come to believe and accept that they had been killed, casualties of his prison experience. This female had proved otherwise, and he was not losing the opportunity. But more than that, there was the satisfaction that in laying with her, he would hurt another, hurt the one who had done such damage to him. Even if he was the only one who knew it—and he was going to have to keep it that way—the rebalance of power, the reclamation of his autonomy, was nourishment to his blackened soul.

Before he could act upon his instincts, however, something occurred to him.

“Why did your family send you on this suicidal mission?” he asked abruptly. “Have you no brothers? No sire?”

Her brows arched. “Males aren’t the only people who are capable of things.”

“No. This should have been carried out by a male relation of your bloodline. Have they no shame?”

Nyx seemed to need a moment to gather herself. “Wow. You know, in the hundred years since you ended up down here, a lot has changed. They let us girls drive cars and hold jobs—oh, and we can vote. Or, well, if I was a human, I could vote. But still.”

“I have offended you,” he said levelly. “For that I am sorry.”

Nyx tilted her head. “But wait, lemme guess. You’re sticking with your dated and sexist position.”

“You expect me to apologize for wanting to protect females? You will not get that, now or ever.”

“‘Protection’ is another word for subjugate.”

“It is? You must explain.”

“You think you need to protect me because I’m weaker than you are.”

“I can most certainly lift more than you can.”

“And that’s everything? Please. Spare me the caveman routine.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Your problem is that you think being able to bench-press a car gives you the right to dictate things that are none of your business.”

“You’ll have to remind me of this when I ensure your safety against the guards.”

“I’ll save myself, thank you very much—”

“It must be nice to know everything about everything. And you accuse me of being an overlord? All you need is a castle and a moat and you’re a medieval knight. At least in your own mind.”

“That’s where it counts most, buddy—”

“Fates, you can’t ever concede a point—”

The two of them were speaking faster and louder, and in the back of his mind, he knew what was happening. Both of them were uneasy with the sexual attraction, unsure of how far to take things, but dearest Virgin Scribe, he was hungry. For her.

And she was the same. Her scent had changed, and everything that was male in him recognized her arousal—and was driven to do something about it.

“—males like you boxing us in, making us feel less than—” She stopped. “What.”

“Do go on.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I enjoy watching you argue with yourself.”

“FYI, you were tossing a few sentences back there yourself, Judgy McJudgerson.”

He shook his head and frowned. “I’m sorry? I am not a magistrate?”

Nyx opened her mouth. Closed it. “Have you ever heard of a meme?”

“Of course. A performer in black and white who doesn’t speak.”

“That’s a mime. A meme is . . .” As she seemed to let her thought recede, her temper appeared to deflate. “You don’t know anything about the Internet, do you. Social media. Microsoft. Apple.”

“Small and supple, you mean? And the latter is a fruit I have long missed the acquaintance of. As for the rest, I’m afraid you have me at a loss.” As they stared at each other, he knew she was tallying his deficiencies with regard to the modern world. “You can stop that right now. Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. I don’t need or desire your sympathy.”