The Jackal (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 1)

If only his body had not gotten aroused against his will.

If only . . .

As the distant rumbling of the collapses registered, he went back to the Command’s area, keeping the dart gun at the ready in case the creature fell upon him. But instead of returning to where he had been, he went into the rough part, where the tile beneath his feet stopped and so did the finish on the walls.

Bare tunnel now, and when he sent his will forth, candles flared.

As he approached the Wall, he held his breath.

There was nothing out of place. And no addition to what had been carved into the black rock since he had brought Nyx here—not that there would have been time for that.

As he thought of Nyx, he missed her so much that he felt as though his heart had been struck a terrible blow with a fist.

But if his young had to spend an eternity down here—alive or dead—so did he. Some debts could never be repaid, and he had been a damnation upon his progeny before the birthing had even commenced.

That needed to be righted by a sacrifice worthy of the curse.

He focused on the name Nyx had lingered over, the name of the female who had been her sister . . . the name of the scourge upon which all of Jack’s suffering had been based. To paraphrase Lucan, may he rest in peace, destiny could indeed be a bitch.

How were they one and the same, Nyx’s sister and his tormentor?

What did it matter.

“Where is the body,” Jack growled at the Wall. “What did you do with mine dead.”

The light was so bright, Nyx knew that she had passed out and been found by the dawn, sure as if the sun was a predator that had closed the distance with its prey and was prepared to claim its victim.

So bright. Her eyes burned even though her lids were closed, so she dragged her arm over her face.

She should have tried harder to get home. But as with most decisions, if you didn’t resolve things for yourself, the choice was made for you. She had intended to only rest and catch her breath for a moment—

Squish, squish . . . squish . . .

The sound was like a pair of kitchen sponges coming at her. And then there were a pair of soft cracks, right beside her head.

“Where are you hurt?”

That voice . . . that male voice. Nyx lifted her head—or tried to. Her whole body hurt and her neck was incredibly stiff, so she didn’t get far.

“Can I move you? Or is your spine broken.”

“Not broken . . .” she whispered hoarsely. Because this had to be a dream.

Her grandfather couldn’t possibly be here, in the middle of nowhere, turning up just as the dawn claimed her body with its beautiful warmth.

“Is it you?” she said.

Her grandfather—or her mental manifestation of him—picked her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders. As he carried her over muddy ground, his familiar scent—that blend of pipe tobacco and cedar boards—registered in her nose, bringing with it an awareness that this was real. He was real.

Forcing her eyes to focus, she took in his lined face, his white hair, his workman’s shoulders and workman’s shirt. Abruptly, she was overcome, tears flowing onto her cheeks.

“This is really you,” she choked out.

He, on the other hand, stayed completely calm, in the way he always was, his attention fixated on something ahead of them, something he was going toward.

So yup, he truly had found her, wherever she was.

“Can you stand?” he said.

“Yes.” She didn’t want to disappoint him or seem weak in any way. “I can stand.”

Old habits and all. She had always wanted to live up to his expectations. The trouble was going to be that limb and that boot full of blood, however. She’d been injured somehow, although she couldn’t remember when. During the explosion? Or when she’d landed with the Command on top of her as rocks had fallen everywhere.

Oh, God . . . Janelle was dead.

“Here’s the car,” her grandfather announced. “I have to put you down.”

“Okay.” Nyx sniffled and wiped her face on the sleeve of the prison tunic. “All right.”

When he lowered her to the ground, she wobbled and had to lift her bad foot. Prepared to be left to fend for herself in the balance department, she was surprised as he held on to her arm while he opened the rear door . . . to the Volvo.

The sight of the station wagon got her crying. It was about everything that had gone before . . . the way things had been and never would be again.

“Get in,” her grandfather said.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She hopped a couple of times so she could face the front of the station wagon. The hood was uneven and held tight by bungee cords, but he’d obviously gotten the motor back to functioning.