The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(37)

Luke.

It was the supplier, Luke. That’s who he was, and his eyes were full of worry and warmth as he looked at her—

“How . . . find me?” she groaned as he went back to work and cut what appeared to be nylon climbing rope with a knife—

Between one blink and the next, she saw the switchblade he was using right next to her face . . . felt it between her breasts . . . heard the pale man’s accent tell her they were going to stop when she had to catch her breath.

Rio let out a choked sob. “Oh, God. He was going to kill me—”

“Don’t think about that right now.” Luke collapsed the switch, and came back up to her head. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Strong arms gathered her as if she were cut glass and pulled her into his heavy chest. Even though she didn’t know him, and had every reason not to trust him, she wanted to put her arms around him in gratitude. But she didn’t have the strength.

“I can’t walk,” she mumbled as she turned her face into his neck. “My legs . . . I can’t feel them.”

God, he smelled good. More of that cologne he’d had on before—and it was strong enough to cut through that horrible smell.

He glanced over his shoulder to the door that had been broken down by that animal. “I’ve got to get us a car—”

“Mine is . . .” Back at Mozart’s—no, at her apartment. Which was miles and miles, and a lifetime, away. “Gone.”

“I’ll figure it out.” He set her back a little. “I’m going to lay you down, okay?”

After he’d lowered her onto the floor once more, he got to his feet and went over to a pack of some sort. “Maybe there are keys in here.”

“What . . . happened . . . dog?” What if the thing came back—

“He’s gone.” Luke spoke absently as he continued to rifle through whatever was in the bag. “He’s how I found you, actually.”

It was then that she turned her head—and retched. Across the room, looking like he’d been holding a bomb to his chest when it exploded . . . was the white-haired man: His naked body was sprawled in the far corner, a bloody smear pattern tracking across the dirty floor like he’d been dragged over there.

“Dear God,” she mumbled.

Whether it was the desecration of that body, or dehydration, or that cloth gag, her mouth was like steel wool, the inside of her cheeks chewed raw, her tongue nothing but a dry slab between her rows of teeth.

“Okay, I found a car key, but it’s not safe. I’ll bet they’ll have a tracker on it . . .” He tossed a key fob at the mangled remains. “Fuckers.”

Luke rose to his full height and stared at the wall, and that was when he properly registered to her for the first time. He was wearing black pants that didn’t reach his ankles and were tight around his thighs, and a black leather jacket that was zipped from hem to collar. The jacket also seemed too small, a gap of taut flesh around his hips and lower belly showing. And he was barefoot, too.

But like she was going to argue with the sartorial choices of her savior?

Or the wet hair, she noted numbly as he pushed the waves back again.

When he returned to her, he looked away sharply and she worried he’d been wrong, that the dog had returned. But then his gentle hands realigned her cut-open fleece and shirt, making sure her breasts were covered.

“You need to take this.”

Her eyes refused to follow her command to focus. But eventually, she recognized what he was holding out to her. A gun.

“I have to go find us a car,” he said. “And I know there’s no one in the building. You’re safer here than you are down on the street, especially if armed.”

It took everything in her not to beg him to take her along. But he was right.

“Help me . . . up. Prop me on the wall.”

Luke closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

Bending down, his hands, his big, careful hands, slipped under her arms. As he lifted her, she hissed in pain, and his face paled.

“I’m so sorry—”

“Move me,” she ordered, “just move me.”

Biting down on her molars, she endured the agony of a change in position, her arms and legs screaming as the joints, which had become locked, were forced to bend. And then, when she was leaned on the flat wall, her torso just slid to the side, her energy spent, her body refusing to work.

Luke ended up having to relocate her so she was in a corner.

“Gun,” she grunted.

She tried to lift her hands to hold it. She couldn’t.

Luke got the pack thing and put it carefully in her lap. Then he situated her forearms on the bundle and set the gun between her palms, training the barrel at the door at what would be chest height on an average man.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “You go . . . I’ll take care of myself.”

There was a pause. And then Luke surged forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

He was gone after that, rushing out the wide-open doorway.

As Rio took a deep breath, her ribs were like a steel cage around her lungs and nausea rose again. Then her vision receded to a fine point—although it came back quick enough.

Shifting her eyes over to the dead body, she swallowed compulsively. In the light that shined in from the stairwell’s fixture, the gleam of blood seemed evil—and then something moved.