The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(71)

Always watching. Always waiting.

Cursing to himself, he stared down the hundred or so rows of berths, thinking about all the prisoners wedged in like they were objects, rather than living beings. As his anger stirred, he started walking again, crossing through the pools of lights thrown by the ceiling fixtures. The vertical, four-by-eight-foot cubicles were stacked three up from the floor, all of them open at the one end, endless pairs of feet, shod and unshod, facing out into the space. Ladders were mounted to the right of each opening, and the snoring was muffled, but pervasive.

As he breathed in, the density of scents was nearly overwhelming, but there was also that fresh pine smell from the fact that it had all been newly built up, just like the work rooms, the Executioner’s wall and private quarters, and the other security provisions. The construction had been done before the relocation by God only knew who, and he had to admit, it had all been thought through.

Too bad it was positively inhumane.

His assigned space wasn’t far from the stairwell, and he’d always been glad he’d managed to get a top, rather than a bottom or middle berth. Ascending the ladder, he slid into his slot, crossed his feet at the ankles, and folded his arms over his chest.

He wanted to go to Rio, but he couldn’t risk being followed.

And putting her right in the hands of the Executioner.

As the dim snoring got on his nerves and everything felt itchy, he decided it was too bad he didn’t have that old cassette player anymore. His sole possession had been destroyed during the collapse, and he missed the thing, even though he’d had only one tape.

Duran Duran had had other hit singles in addition to “Hungry Like the Wolf.”

They’d had one called “Rio.”

Hadn’t they.





Just as Rio turned away from the bed, the patient spoke up. “Lucan will take care of you.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Actually, I . . . I am on my own—”

“He saved me not only when he didn’t have to, but at great peril to himself. You can trust him.” The patient’s tone got more strident. “And that is why you, Apex, shall ensure no harm comes unto her. She is Lucan’s.”

Rio braced herself for an inner, private rager in her head about how women, especially women like her, were not anyone’s pseudo possessions. But when she just felt a little warm spot in the center of her chest, she wondered when in the hell she’d regressed into 1950s traditional sex roles.

Then again, maybe she just had a low-level staph infection from having an open wound on the back of her head.

That’s right, she thought. The flush was probably just bacteria in her bloodstream making her run a slight fever.

“Apex?” the patient demanded.

After a moment, the other man let out a grudging mmrumph sound. Which, all things considered, could have meant anything from “yes, I’ll chill on the whole murder thing” to “what are you going to do to stop me from that bed you’re in”—although when the patient nodded a little, it appeared that, at least between the pair of men, the translation was acceptable as an agreement.

“Do not endanger yourselves—”

Coughing cut the patient off, to the point where Rio worried there would be nothing to treat by the time they got back. But then those lungs seemed to settle.

“Come on,” Apex said grimly.

When Rio went to pull back the curtain, he clapped a hand on her forearm. “I go first. Always.”

His voice was soft. His eyes were like a pair of assault rifles.

“You can lead on,” she drawled. “But I’m not going to yes-sir you, so I wouldn’t hold your breath for that one.”

Apex’s brows rose. And then he I-go-first-always’d out into the open area. As Rio stepped through, too, she— Something came down over her head, something soft, like a massive cobweb—and she immediately fought against the flapping, now-heavy weight.

“Stop it,” Apex snapped. “We have to mask your scent.”

“What?”

There was a tug, and then everything settled off her shoulders. Looking down at herself, she said, “The nurse’s uniform?”

“That one was used for the last bed change and is on the way to the laundry.”

Explains the stains, she thought.

Apex went over and opened the drawer of a desk that was right out of a secretary’s office from 1980. When he came back, he started rubbing her down.

“Wait—what are you doing—”

The man’s hands were quick and impersonal, passing over the folds of the buff-colored robe fast and hard. With every swipe, more of that incense smell wafted up into her nose.

“It’s the best we can do,” he muttered as he tossed the brown sticks back onto the desk. “Now listen to me, when we’re out there, don’t fuck around. Follow behind me, keep your head down, and . . .”

When he just stopped talking, she glanced down at herself again. “What?”

“You don’t know, do you,” he said remotely.

“Know what?”

“Where you really are.”

“You want to draw me a map? That’d be great. Thanks.”

“I’m not talking about location.” Apex shook his head and yanked the hood piece up, the mesh swinging into place over her face. “This is fucked up. Just so you know.”