The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(38)

Or . . . at least she thought it did. Probably just an autonomic jerk of muscle fibers.

Well, no doubt, it was that—considering most of the muscles of the chest were gone, and she wasn’t even sure which part of the glistening remains was the face.

She refocused on that open door and trained all her strength on her trigger finger.

In case she needed it to pull hard.





Lucan hit the walk-up’s staircase on a leap, jumping down landing to landing, swinging himself around by the banister. At the ground floor, he ignored the front entrance and shot to the back hall. Breaking out through the battered door at the end, he found a series of parking spots in the alley, but they were empty—of cars, that was. Discarded mattresses, a broken TV, and a couch that had its inner stuffing exposed to the elements took up the shallow asphalt square.

As he cursed out loud, he tasted anew the blood of the man he’d eaten.

Even though his wolf had done the chewing, as usual, he was left with the aftereffects, his full stomach not the kind of third wheel he needed right now.

Taking off at a jog, his bare feet were silent over the damp, cold pavement of the alley. When he got to the first intersection of a proper avenue, he looked left and right.

And jumped out in front of a car.

As the headlights splashed across him, he put both his palms forward like he was Superman and could pick the thing up by the front bumper—and then, because he was no hero at all, much less one that was super, he had to jump out of the way when the tires locked and the skidding started.

Momentum being what it was, he sprinted forward to keep up with the driver’s side window, and the second the sedan came to a halt, he locked eyes with a—shit, it was a kid behind the wheel, a human young who couldn’t have been much older than fourteen or fifteen, not that Lucan knew a ton about the aging cycle of the other species.

Actually, it was two kids, and they were arguing with each other, like over who’d chosen to come this way. Then both doors punched open and they bolted from the scene, taking off so fast, Lucan didn’t have time to get into their brains and demand that they give him control of the vehicle.

Might be the only thing that went his way tonight, Lucan thought.

The deserters had left the engine in gear, so without any brake pedal pressure, the sedan was rolling forward at an idle. Hopping in, he yanked the wheel around and hit the gas. The passenger’s side door flopped wide on the turn, but as he righted the course to straight, it clapped shut.

For no good reason, he noticed that he smelled fast food and glanced across the console. The passenger side’s wheel well was filled with Burger King bags, and that pair had obviously just stopped for some more grub. There was also something else in the air—fake strawberry and tobacco smoke.

The car was clearly stolen. Not exactly the complication he was looking for. He’d have preferred to tamper with the memories of a human so that he didn’t have to worry about the Caldwell police having an all-points bulletin out on Rio’s escape route away from that walk-up. But he had no time to spare to look for a better four-wheel option.

Back at the walk-up, he pulled in next to the deconstructed sofa, slammed the gearshift into park, and jerked the keys out from the steering column. It was a good thing that the beater was so old. In the last couple of months, he’d learned that modern cars had remotes that could live in a pocket or a bag and didn’t have to be plugged into the ignition.

Those boys might well have taken the ability to secure and restart the thing with them.

Stretching across the seats, he pushed down the lock on the passenger door. Then he was out and locking the driver’s panel with the key.

He’d never moved so fast in his life: In the rear entrance. Back down the dark hall. Around the base of the stairs and then up the steps three at a time, his hand grabbing at the balustrade and hauling his weight up.

Fourth landing now—and he remembered how he’d left her with the gun.

“It’s me,” he said before he jumped into the open doorway. “Rio? Don’t shoot, it’s me—”

“I’m here,” was the weak response.

Lucan all but flew into the shitty apartment, expecting to see the woman slumped on the floor. She was not. Her head was listing to the side, but other than that, she was precisely where he’d arranged her, like a rag doll abandoned by its maker.

God, she looked bad.

Yet her eyes were shining fiercely, and that nine millimeter was angled right where it needed to be.

Her body might have been failing her; her will was not.

As he rushed over to her, time fell into a crawl. It seemed like a hundred years until he was kneeling by her side again, and the sight of her so battered and bruised was etched into his mind, indelible. From her matted short hair, to the blood that stained her sliced-open fleece and shirt, to the ligature marks around her pale throat, she was nothing like the woman he had met the night before.

And to think he’d almost ignored that sound he’d heard, that prickle of awareness that he’d had out in front of the building as he’d been about to leave.

If he’d been even ten minutes later or had taken off . . . she’d have been hurt in ways that were intolerable to consider.

That bloody, naked corpse over in the corner hadn’t paid enough.

“Let’s go,” he choked out.

When he went to take the gun from her, she shook her head. “I’ll cover us. You just carry me out of here, and I’ll shoot anything in our way.”