The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(63)

For her safety and her escape.

Even after everything she’d said to him, he was still taking care of her.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “You know, that I jumped down your throat earlier. ”

“There’s no reason to discuss any of that.” He shook his head and seemed to refocus. “But how did you get away from the guards?”

To hide her emotions, Nyx took a bite of the cheese. Drank some more. Ate more bread.

Then she frowned. “How did you know about the guards?”





The Jackal still couldn’t believe he was sitting across from his female—and thank God he had snagged those meal provisions.

As he had rushed here from his cell, heart in throat, terror ripping through his body, he had passed an abandoned food-delivery cart and taken a serving on a lark.

The fuck it was on a lark. He had grabbed the bundle as a talisman, as if maybe the food he had for her would ensure her presence, her survival. Such bullshit.

The only thing he’d known for sure was that if she was alive, she would come here.

When he had seen the single lit candle, off in the distance, at the terminus of the passageway he had ducked into, he had felt a glimmer of hope. And then, as he had willed the candles on and she had been there . . . he had wanted to throw himself at her. Embrace her. Feel the warmth of her body.

Mindful of her low opinion of him, he had stayed back.

And he had taken her current apology for what it was: gratitude for the food.

What had she asked of him? Oh . . . right.

“The guards went through all the cells and performed a bed check. During the process, one of them rushed up to the others and reported the disturbance.” He was not going to speak about the Command around her. “But they said they had you at gunpoint. I don’t understand how you made it back here.”

“I dematerialized,” she said in between bites of bread and cheese.

Fates, but the malest part of him—stupid as it was—was gratified to see her eat the sustenance he had brought to her, but he was worried about that shoulder. There was a fresh bloodstain on the tunic he’d forced her to put on—

“Wait, what?” Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he leaned forward. “You dematerialized?”

Surely he had misheard that.

Nyx shrugged and took another drink from the glass bottle. There was a soft pop as she released the seal of her lips around the open neck. “The guards were in front of me and I was up against some kind of dropped-down steel wall. I couldn’t retreat any farther, there was no going forward, and I wasn’t going to win a shoot-out with them. So I did the only thing I could. I got the hell out of there.”

The Jackal blinked. “I can’t . . . how did you do that? How did you calm yourself?”

“I just made it happen. You do what you have to do in situations.” She took another long drink, nearly finishing what was in the glass container. Then she tacked on dryly, “Which was how I ended up down here in the first place. Anyway, do you want any of this?”

“No, thank you. I brought everything for you.” He found himself continuing to shake his head. “That is . . . remarkable. That you could have the presence of mind, the self-control, in that confrontation to save yourself.”

“Like I said, it was just what I had to do.” She picked at the bread, pulling free a soft wedge from the center. “And now I’m here.”

“I have another way to get you out.” When she looked up sharply, he told himself he felt nothing. At all. “The work shifts have been canceled, and as soon as they’re reinstated, I’ll take you out that way. They’ll be behind in production, and there will be a scramble to catch up. I’ll bet they double up on workers and the chaos will be in our favor.”

There was a long silence, and he was confused. “What.”

“You’re helping me.” She chewed slowly. “Again. Even though I owe you an apology.”

The Jackal watched the candlelight play over her face. She had a scratch on her cheek. Dirt on her forehead. Hair that had frizzed up by her left ear.

She looked worn-out, and he preferred her full of piss and vinegar, even if she was yelling at him, even if her comments were unfair. It meant she could fight. And he knew, without asking or waiting to see if he was wrong, that the food was not going to revive her enough.

For what was ahead of her, she was going to need more physical strength and mental acuity than those prison rations could give her.

“You have to feed.” As her brows rose, he put his palm out at her. “You’re bleeding, again, and I bet you don’t even know it.”

The way she looked at her shoulder answered that one.

He cursed softly. “If we’re going to get you through this, you need to be strong, and you’ve used up a lot of your energy. You know this, too.”

She muttered something under her breath. “I don’t want to . . .”

“You don’t want it to be me? Fine. Use Kane. He’s a gentlemale and will not take advantage of the . . . shall we say, situation—”

“I don’t want to have anyone but you,” she said sharply. And then the fight went out of her fast. “I just don’t want to use you again.”

“When have you used me up until now?”