The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(54)

Turning her head, she wished she could see him, if only to take some strength from the sight of his face. It was too dark, though.

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “Just so you know.”

“You’re in shock.”

“I am not—”

“Of course you are—”

“Don’t tell me what I am—”

They both stopped at the same time. And she had to smile—although the expression didn’t last long.

“Under different circumstances,” she said, “I really could have fallen for you.”

She didn’t expect a reply from him. But then his voice, so deep and low, weaved its way through the darkness to her.

“Under different circumstances, I would have fallen even harder for you. And not regretted my heart’s tumble for a moment.”

Closing her eyes, she felt a pain that had nothing to do with her bullet wound lance through the center of her chest. To hell with that better-to-have-loved-and-lost-than-never-loved-at-all bullshit. She would much rather have never met Jack.

Now, she was going to have to live with everything she would never have.

Assuming she made it out of the prison alive.

Tilting forward, she peered out into the Hive. “It’s completely empty. Is this normal?”

“No. Not at all.”

“What do we do?”

“We can’t stay here, and we can’t go back. We need to return to the hidden passageway. Head to the left and move fast, but don’t run. Just walk like you know where you’re going.”

Taking a deep breath, she said a quick prayer, and when she slipped out of the fissure’s cover, she did not look around. She stuck close to the Hive’s outer rim, so close that her wounded shoulder bumped along against the stone walling, each impact making her grit her teeth. Head down. Eyes down. Shoulder on the wall. Head down. Eyes down. Shoulder on the—

Jack jumped ahead and she was relieved. In the lee of his huge body, she felt safer—until she realized the gun was in her right hand. Under the loose cover, she switched the weapon to the left so that it was on the wall side. The last thing she needed was some flash of the metal giving things away.

It wasn’t until they were back in the main tunnel, the wide one that had been crowded with prisoners, that she realized they’d left the Hive behind. She hadn’t even noticed. Where was the turn . . . where was the turn . . . that would take them back to the hidden place. To the waterfall. To the pool.

She craved that cloistered space as if it were something from her childhood, a destination she had visited many times, an enclave of security from any storms outside the family home.

Oh, emotions. Nonexistent if you were looking for something to touch or hold in your palm, but still so very corporeal given their capacity for great feats of transformation. Sure as if they had hands to build, to paint over, to wallpaper and carpet, they could turn a carved-out cave in the middle of a prison into a dreamscape home.

That was what was on her mind as Jack tugged her sleeve and took her around a corner to pull her to a stop. As he checked to see if they were being followed or about to be jumped, she studied him. The lower part of his face was still stained by the blood of the guard he’d all but eaten, and strands of his long dark hair had come loose from its braid. Fresh red blood stained his tunic in a couple of places, and every time she breathed through her nose, she caught her own scent. Meanwhile, Jack was panting hard and very flushed, but he was not scattered. His eyes were sharp and decisive. So were his movements as he reached around her and flipped something on the wall.

As the hidden panel slid back, she all but threw herself inside the protected passageway. Still, she didn’t relax until they were closed in together safely.

Candles flared down at the ground level. But Nyx knew which way to go.

She led them once again—not that there were any decisions of direction to make—and as the sound of falling water and the fresh scent of clean air reached her senses, she started to tremble.

Her legs gave out as she came around the last bend and saw the pool.

Jack caught her. As always, or so it seemed.

When he eased her down onto one of the smooth sofa rocks, she gave into gravity’s greedy hold and stared up at the glossy ceiling. Their movements had disturbed the flames at the heads of the wicks all around, and she watched the shadows on the rough rock ceiling dance above her.

God, her back hurt—no, wait. She was laying on her pack.

With a grunt, she shucked the tunic and then the nylon bundle of weapons, and as the latter flopped onto the floor, she relaxed into exhaustion. Or maybe she was passing out. Hard to tell.

When Jack’s face appeared over her own, she wanted to kiss him. Just because he was still alive and so was she.

For the time being.

“Let me take your windbreaker off,” he said. “We need to see how bad your shoulder is.”

She nodded, and did what she could to help him remove the layers that covered her. When she was down to her short-sleeved shirt, they both inspected her shoulder.

“It’s only a flesh wound,” he said as he closed his eyes and sat back. Rubbing his face, he muttered, “Blessed Virgin Scribe.”

As she prodded the red streak on the outside of her upper arm, the bleeding started up again, so she left things well enough alone. Thanks to the way vampires healed, the wound, which was not so deep as to reach the underlying musculature, was already knitting itself back together. If she played her cards right and didn’t get too physical in the next couple of hours, it would soon be fully closed.