The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

Just before the door clapped shut, she buttressed it with her hip and then she extended her leg and held it in place with her foot.

After that, her superpowers kicked in.

Even though Luke had a hundred pounds on her, she somehow found the strength to hook a hold under his arms and pull him toward the stairs. Naturally, his body caught the damn doorjamb, but then it was on the panel, and keeping things wide as she yanked—yanked—yanked—

As his boots finally cleared the threshold, things started to shut and she had a final glimpse of the fire, a final inhale of that horrible stench of burning flesh. Then there was a hard impact slam, followed only by breathing. Ragged breathing. Hers. Mayhem’s.

Not Luke’s, though.

He was horribly still.

The door at the head of the stairs opened, and Apex’s voice barely surmounted the panting. “Jesus.”

Things started happening at that point, but she was having trouble tracking it all. Apex picked Luke up and carried him inside, and then Mayhem was next, like they were cordwood being stacked. Marshaling her own coordination—or what was left of it—she stumbled up the steps and tried the door, which had re-closed on itself. It was locked. What was the code?

Apex opened the thing before she could even try it once.

“I got you.” He grabbed her as she fell forward. “In you go.”

With a practiced move, as if they were dancing, he spun her around and she felt a seat come up to her butt as her legs went loose. It took her a minute to focus, and then she looked across the private quarters. Mayhem was stirring on the floor by the door. Luke was on the bed, sprawled faceup—but at least he was breathing.

Such high standards.

Pushing herself to her feet, she went over on unsteady legs and sat down by him. The burns on his face weren’t so bad, just a flushing redness, and his sweatshirt was perfectly intact.

That one hand she was worried about, as it was red and swollen.

And then there were those lungs. He’d clearly breathed in fire, to have that much of a reaction and yet show so little external damage on his body.

“We should get him treatment,” she whispered.

Yet even as she said it, she knew there was no way any of them would agree to take him to a real doctor.

After a little while, Mayhem, who had clearly come around, and Apex started talking. She didn’t listen. She just sat next to Luke and willed him to be okay.

I wish we’d had more nights and days, you and me.

Her mind was a chaotic storm, too many thoughts swirling around, nothing landing for proper attention.

No, wait, that wasn’t true.

She wished they’d had more time, too. And different circumstances.

“Wake up, Luke,” she said softly. “Please.”

There was no hope at all that he’d hear her—much less respond. But his eyes fluttered—and then opened.

Glowing yellow eyes locked on her face with surprising focus.

“Hi.” She cleared her throat as her voice cracked. “You’re safe now.”

Luke’s stare moved around until he seemed to give up on the whole sight thing. And then he said something she was never going to forget.

“Am safe . . . because am with you.”

Rio stayed at Luke’s bedside for . . . well, she wasn’t exactly sure how long. It turned out that the quarters had a bathroom behind a partition in one corner, and from time to time, she would get up and refill a glass of water for him, making sure that when he roused, she was there to help him lift his head to take a sip. He had refused to eat the bread and cheese that Mayhem had brought and put on the table with all the handwritten spreadsheets. And Luke didn’t seem to be resting when he wasn’t conscious—it was more that he passed out and came to in a cycle that could hardly be considered peaceful.

It reminded her of Kane.

Speaking of the other burn patient, Apex, along with Mayhem, was just outside, standing against the locked door by the Executioner’s cold body—

Luke made a noise in the back of his throat as if he were coughing, and she bent down closer to him. She had spent a lot of the time staring at his face, tracing the planes and angles of his cheekbones, his jaw, his brow, with her eyes. It seemed incredibly intimate to look at him like that, without him being aware she was doing so, as if they were separated by a crowd and she was off in a darkened corner, admiring him.

Speculating about his life was unavoidable, and she wondered how he had ended up here, in the drug trade, in a place that had its own pseudo police force. Who were his parents? Where had he grown up?

What would he do after this era in his life was done?