The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

Luke hesitated.

“You will leave us,” the woman said more sharply. “You are not her mate. It is improper for you to attend to her. Go.”

After a moment, Luke looked at Rio. “I’ll just be upstairs.”

“It’s okay,” Rio said. Even though she feared she was lying to him.

“And you must needs get her some food and drink,” the nun ordered. “Now. She is dehydrated and requires nourishment.”

Luke did not seem like the kind of guy who took orders. But he skulked off for the stairs like he’d been yelled at by an elementary school teacher.

After his heavy weight clomped up the steps, the robed figure’s mesh-covered face turned to Rio. But the woman didn’t say another word until Luke had closed the door.

“Tell me, female,” she said gently, “what happened to you.”

Rio’s eyes watered. And she intended to speak . . . but she suddenly didn’t have any air in her lungs.

“Oh, female. I am so sorry.” A soft hand took her own. “Just catch your breath, we are not in a hurry here.”

“I’m okay.” As Rio breathed in deep, she winced. “I really am.”

Was she? She didn’t know for sure. Or maybe at all.

“Where do you hurt?”

Everywhere. “My head is the worst. They hit me with a gun, I think. At least twice.”

Determined to be a good patient, even though there was nobody around with a clipboard to judge her performance on convalescent compulsories, she went to sit up. The pink-and-white fabric draping her to her chin fell down—

Revealing her cut-open t-shirt and the red line where the tip of the switchblade had cut into her.

Rio stared down at herself. And then with shaking hands, she drew the two halves together so that she was covered.

“You are going to be all right,” the woman said sadly. “At least physically. I shall make sure of that.”

Between one blink and the next, Rio found herself back on the floor of that apartment, tethered tight between the stakes, that shiny silver blade going—

The trembling took her over fast, her whole body caught in a flood of flashback adrenaline.

“Come, let us attend to your head,” the woman said after a moment. “We shall start there.”

Or at least Rio thought the words were something like that.

She suddenly couldn’t hear very well over the screaming inside her skull.

Lucan stood in the empty, antiquated kitchen, staring out a dirty window, trying not to think about what was happening down below. As time stretched to an unbearable limit, and he felt like he was either going to punch something, explode into a shower of cartilage, or put his head through the wall, a set of headlights pulled into the long drive and came down to the farmhouse.

He palmed up both guns and looked down at the weapons. One was from the prison camp, signed out to him for use only against humans in the drug trade. The other was from the pack he’d lifted from the apartment. He knew how many bullets were in the former—didn’t have a clue about the count in the latter.

Going over to the door, he back-flatted against the wall and looked out. As the headlights were killed, his wolven eyes adjusted.

A hatchback was right up to the rear bumper of the stolen Cutlass, and when Mayhem got out with three pizza boxes, Lucan whispered a prayer to the Elder Wolf, even though he didn’t believe in it. Her. Whatever the fuck it was.

“I owe you,” he said to Her as he stepped out from the house. Then he spoke more loudly, “You made it.”

Mayhem was characteristically cheerful, the male raising the boxes up like they were a trophy given in an obstacle course competition. “I got you cheese, pepperoni and cheese, and sausage, pepperoni, and cheese.”

“Did you also—”

The prisoner nodded over his shoulder. “I snagged a gallon of bottled water. It was the best I could do. It’s in the back—here, take these.”

Lucan accepted the stack of boxes, sandwiching them between his palmfuls of nine millimeter, feeling the warmth, smelling the melted cheese and the sauce.

“I’ll come back for the water—”

“I’ll bring in the—”

“No.”

Mayhem stopped in the process of opening the back. “Why not. You said you needed help.”

“Stay here,” Lucan snapped. “You’re not coming inside.”

He went into the house, put the food load down on the chipped countertop, and bolted back out.

“Forget it,” he said the second he stepped out. “Don’t even start.”

Mayhem was leaning against the hatchback, arms crossed over his chest, the gallon of water dangling from two fingers. And he wasn’t smiling.

“I’m not talking about it.” Lucan strode forward. “Gimme the water. I owe you. And that’s as far as we’re going.”

“You’ve got a problem, prisoner.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But whatever it is, it isn’t your business.”

“Sure as hell is. You told me to come out with food. You get caught with—whatever the hell is going on here, and I’m in on it.”