The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #1)(80)

As he was shut in by himself, he started to scream. Not that he made any noise. The only thing that changed was his rate of breathing. He started to pant.

He had to force his body to move. He had to fight to get free. He had to—

The paralysis did not yield, even to the adrenaline coursing through his system. Frozen as well as chained to the bedding platform, Jack yelled inside his skin.

His female needed him and he could not get to her.

This was the worst of all the hells he had ever known.





Nyx was shoved into a ten-foot-square cell. As she lost her balance and pitched forward, she put out her handcuffed palms and caught herself on the rock floor. Flipping over, she jumped to her feet and brought up her fists.

All the guard did was shut her in. Then leave her.

Staying in a fighting stance, even though there was no one around and her head was pounding, she looked through the steel mesh that ran between the iron bars. She had no idea where Kane was—or where she was. From the light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, it appeared that she was in some kind of holding area, but the place looked abandoned. There was black dust on everything, and the other two cells were not only empty, they had parts of their steel mesh hanging off in sheets.

Not that the prisoners, with those explosive collars, could ever dematerialize.

With a groan, she eased up on the go-nowhere aggression and went to try the cell’s opening. Locked tight. With copper.

She was stuck until someone let her out of here. “Damn it.”

Before the guards had split up her and Kane, she’d been stripped of her backpack—which meant she had no weapons, no ammo, no windbreaker with her phone. Not that she had reception in the prison anyway.

God, had they found Jack, too? Were they going to hurt Kane until the male told them everything?

The unknowns were making her crazy. And then there was—

Nyx frowned. The holding area was at the end of a dim tunnel, and off in the distance, she could hear a commotion. People were talking fast, the multilayer of voices echoing down to her. And then abruptly, everything went silent.

Marching now. Getting louder. And before she could make out how many were coming for her, a different scent, pungent and distinct, flooded into the cell and saturated the air.

What the hell was that?

Except Nyx didn’t spend a lot of time trying to place the smell. A lineup of guards approached, their black uniforms and shiny weapons and coordinated movements strobing as they passed in and out of the pools of illumination thrown by the tunnel’s light bulbs. As they closed in, she backed up against the cell’s far wall.

Like that was going to do any good—

“Oh . . . shit,” she whispered.

There was a figure behind the guards. One that was draped in black robing, with a hood over its face and head. It had to be the Command.

Well. At least she wouldn’t have to wait around, wondering what was going to happen to her. Her end was right here.

As the guards filed into the holding area, they flattened against the walls, their AR-15s held across their chests, their faces up, their eyes down on the rock floor. The Command was the last to enter, the figure in black imposing and full of authority.

Nyx lifted her chin. She was not going to bow before anything or anybody on her way out the proverbial door. She had fought too long and too hard to bend. Though she was scared, she was determined not to show it—

The Command stopped abruptly. Then the hood that covered the face tilted to one side. After a moment, the figure seemed to weave on his feet, which seemed at odds with the obvious authority he wielded.

“Leave us,” a low voice ordered.

As if there were any doubts in Nyx’s mind as to the power of the male, the effect of the command was like someone had dropped radioactive material in the center of the open space in front of the cells: The guards flushed out of the area quick as a breath.

And then the Command . . .

Didn’t do a goddamn thing.

Those robes didn’t move. There were no words. No weapons being taken out, either.

After what seemed like forever, the figure took two steps forward to the cell door. A long sleeve moved up, and a hand reached for the lock. There was the sound of shifting metal, and then the section of steel mesh and iron bars swung open, the hinges creaking.

Nyx braced for a physical confrontation, moving into the middle of the cell, sinking into her thigh muscles and clasping her cuffed hands together so she could use them as a blunt force weapon.

“So you’re the Command,” she said roughly.

The figure went still again, and Nyx breathed deep, smelling that thick scent that seemed to coat the male as another tangible robe. Sandalwood. It was sandalwood—

Nyx.

From out of nowhere, she heard her own name in her head. Which, considering all the things she needed to be aware of at this moment, was hardly an efficient use of brain power—

“Nyx . . . ?”

Recoiling, Nyx tried to figure out what was wrong with her hearing. Maybe it wasn’t her ears, though. Maybe it was her head injury from that rock falling on her temple. Because there was no way in hell the Command had just said her name like that.

The figure brought up a hand to the top of his hood, and as he stripped off the—

Nyx took an involuntary step back. And another one. The last took her right up against the back of the cell, the cold mesh and bars registering on her shoulder blades through the thin prison tunic.