The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(115)

“Oh . . . God,” she said into the candlelight. “It’s really over.”





When Rio emerged into the kitchen, she opened the door slowly. Luke was over at the chipped counters and the ruined sink, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on his boots.

He looked up and smiled a little. “You ready to trade?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Keys.” He held out a collection of silver slips on a metal ring. “To the vehicles? It’s better for you not to be in something that came from my place.”

He tacked on the extra explanation because clearly her brain wasn’t processing anything and he knew it.

“Oh, right.” She walked over to him, fishing around in her pockets. “Here.”

Their hands barely touched as they exchanged what they had, and she looked out over his shoulder at the old car in the dull moonlight.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, unsure what part she was referring to.

“I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”

“Anything.” Within reason.

“Close your eyes, and forgive me.”

“For what—”

All of a sudden, there was a piercing headache in the front of her brain, and her thoughts got muddled. At first, she had no idea what was happening—but then she remembered the way she had felt as the guard had somehow commanded her body in that workroom.

I only took as much as I absolutely had to, she heard Luke say in her mind.

A wonky feeling of disassociation took its time receding, and then she rubbed the eye that stung. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Goodbye, Rio.”

She wanted to hug him, but she could feel her emotions already starting to choke her. And then there were the fuzzy thoughts in her head, nothing organizing into anything that made sense.

“Goodbye, Luke,” she mumbled.

“Ladies first.”

With her heart in her throat, she turned away. Opened the squeaky door. Stepped out into the not-really-much-colder night because the house was unheated.

She looked back as she closed things up. Luke was still leaning against the counter, staring at his boots, a lone figure in an abandoned, ruined kitchen, with the weight of the world on his very strong shoulders.

Her fingertips lingered on the dusty glass. And then she turned away to the car.

As she got inside the Monte Carlo, she was aware of the mental spaciness persisting, but at least the pain in her head was easing, and she knew what to do with the car key, and where the pedals were, and how to put the engine in gear.

She remained absolutely clear, however, on the fact that her heart was breaking.

Turning the POS around, she headed off down the lane, moving the car around potholes in the dirt and a fallen trunk.

Images from being with Luke flashed in front of her eyes: Coming awake in the clinic and finding him beside her. Kissing him. That shower in the private quarters. She remembered the other two men, his friends, and the patient as well. Plus her executing that . . . well, Executioner.

There was also her squeezing into the dumbwaiter. And hiding under the locked-up blocks of drugs in that room.

And yet . . . something was wrong. She couldn’t seem to recall where she had been. It was like a dreamscape, where nothing exactly fit together, even though all the pieces were intact. Also, the harder she concentrated, the more indistinct everything became, and the more her head hurt.

Where was she going, she wondered—

The animal ran out in front of the car so fast that she couldn’t swerve to avoid it, and the thing was so big that when she hit the poor thing, the whole car bucked and got thrown to one side.

“Dammit!” She punched the brakes and squeezed the steering wheel hard.

Shoving the gearshift into park, she opened the door and leaned out, but she couldn’t see anything. With a shaking hand, she released the seat belt and put one foot on the ground, and as she stood up, she decided that everything that could go wrong was going to—

It was a dog.

A big dog. Maybe a wolf . . . at least going by the size of the rear paw that was extending out from the front wheel.

No growling. No moving. No wheezing.

She’d obviously killed it.

Sagging in her own skin, she wanted to break down. It felt like everything was working against her, and though she knew her own life was in danger, and she’d just lost the man she loved—the idea she’d hurt an innocent animal was utterly unbearable.

And then there was the reality that she had to move it out from under the car if she was going to continue driving.

“You got to do this,” she muttered.

And wasn’t that the theme song of her largely dark and depressing reality at large.

Pulling herself together, she palmed up her gun, and stepped around the door—

Rio froze.

Then she slowly brought her free hand to her mouth and just barely caught the scream from breaking out of her throat.

There was a human foot on the ground in front of the wheel. Not a paw.

So she was either losing her mind . . . or her eyesight.

Stumbling around to the front of the car, she saw something that her eyes simply refused to process. There was . . . some kind of change happening to the dog . . . the wolf . . . it was changing.

The wolf was changing.