The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

As the boat continued to rock, her thoughts drifted into fragmentation, nothing sticking, not even the supercharged past—

“—scent? We need to mask it.”

“I shall take care of that.”

A man and a woman were talking, very close to her, and that was confusing because how the hell did that happen in the middle of a bay? Giving up on making sense of anything, she was relieved that she recognized the voices, especially the male one. And talk about smells. There was something earthy in her nose.

It wasn’t until she forced her lids to open that she realized they had closed, and as her eyes strained against a dense darkness, there wasn’t much to see—and not because her vision wasn’t working. It was so dim, only a weak glow of light up ahead orientating her.

Oh, and forget the boat stuff. She wasn’t on a lake; she was being carried, her legs bent over, and her torso braced on, someone’s strong arms, a long stride creating the back-and-forth motion.

“Luke?” Or at least, that’s what she tried to say. The name came out like a croak.

“It’s okay, we’re almost there,” he replied tersely.

In the back of her mind, she was aware that she was in deep trouble, and not just because she was an undercover cop going deeper into a drug supplier’s wherever: She had a feeling she was much more seriously injured than she could comprehend—which was what happened when your brain was the thing wounded most on your body.

As her lids weighed seven hundred pounds apiece, she let them slam back down again—and it was right about then that she became aware of an echoing to the footsteps around her, as if she’d been brought into an open area. The smell was different, too: Astringent with a hint of lemon bloomed in her nose. Which was better than the oppressive earth-stink before.

“Over there,” the female voice said. “The last one in the row, please.”

More rocking. Then she was gently put down, and something was pulled over her. After that, there was the sound of a match striking and then a sweet, woodsy scent.

Incense, she thought.

“This will mask the scent.” The woman was brisk, as if she were in charge. “But no one comes here. The Executioner believes it’s bad luck.”

“Okay,” Luke said quietly. “Hey, thanks for this.”

“I am doing this for her.”

“Is she going to live?”

I don’t know, Rio answered for herself.

As fear spiked into her chest, she threw out a hand. A leather sleeve was just where she needed it to be, and she grabbed on as if it were a lifeline.

Because it was.

“Don’t leave me,” she moaned.

There was a pause. Then that drug supplier, Luke, made a vow they both knew he could not keep: “Never.”

Lucan didn’t know what the fuck he was saying. Hell, he barely knew where he was. This had not been part of the plan.

But as he knelt on the floor next to the hospital bed, he had to wonder what the hell he’d thought was going to happen? Rio was much too injured to be in that cold farmhouse by herself all day long.

Of course, now he had big problems—and so did she, over and above her bruises and wounds. In the prison camp, survival odds increased greatly the fewer people on your list of dependents. Like, if you only had one person, yourself, to worry about, then you automatically knew where everybody who mattered was.

Courtesy of his savior-reflex, he had her . . . and his other little issue.

At this rate, he was going to end up with a tally to rival the census bureau.

The nurse, Nadya, came back over with a shallow pan and some soft towels. “I need to cleanse the wound on the back of her head. Please roll her toward the wall.”

Lucan glanced around. The large storage room they were in had all kinds of old medical supplies on shelves, and discarded packs of whatever-the-fuck on the floor, and bins full of stuff that had to be way too degraded to use. Somehow, the nurse had also managed to find and roll in seven usable hospital beds. Two were occupied now.

Over at the far end of the lineup, the other patient was hidden by sheets that had been nailed up in panels around the mattress. For privacy.

Fuck, Lucan thought. He wished this was a proper clinic.

“Hold on, Rio,” he murmured. “I’m just going to move you a little.”

She groaned and stiffened as he shifted her weight onto her side. And when he had a good look at the wound on the base of her skull, he cursed.

“You shall have to step aside for me to get to her.”

Lucan repositioned himself farther down the mattress. As the nurse knelt where he’d been, her robes pooled around her, and she bowed her head for a moment in prayer. He felt like he should join in, but he didn’t believe in anything.