The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

Although maybe the fact that this female seemed willing to help was proof the Elder Wolf existed. Who the hell knew.

The water Nadya had brought over was clean, drawn from the well. The gauze was likewise fresh, having been taken from some of the leftover supplies. He wished there were X-rays. Surgeons. IVs. Whatever Rio might need—

As the nurse patted at the gash, Rio moaned in pain.

“I’m here,” Lucan said and put his hand on her leg.

“Good,” the nurse murmured. “No stitches needed.”

“How long do you think it’ll take her to recover?”

“We’ll see.” The hood of the robing with its mesh facial shield turned to him. “I don’t know a lot about human healing, other than it is much slower than ours. Where did you find her?”

“Downtown. In Caldwell.”

“Did you hit her with your car?”

As if Rio were a stray dog. “No, I didn’t. I just . . . had to help her.”

“You did the right thing. It is never wrong to show compassion, no matter who or what the creature is.”

Lucan totally didn’t agree with that, so he kept his mouth shut—

Down at the far end of the bed lineup, the sheets hanging from the ceiling moved as if caught in a gentle breeze, the undulation reminding him of a candle flame anchored by a wick, swaying from a draft.

What came out from behind the thin, makeshift curtain made no fucking sense at all.

Apex stepped through an opening in the panels, and as he emerged, the male didn’t bother to look over, look around. Which was as uncharacteristic as the guy setting up a kissing booth: As a paranoid sonofabitch with a kill instinct more finely tuned than an assault rifle’s trigger, he never didn’t check his surrounds.

Instead, he didn’t even seem to notice Lucan. Or the new patient who scented like the human she was because that incense hadn’t taken over the air yet.

The prisoner just drifted out of the storage room, passing his hand down his face like he was either trying to erase what he’d seen.

Or wiping away tears.

“I don’t get it.”

“I beg your pardon?” the nurse murmured.

“Nothing.”

“Let us prop her on her side like this with something. She will rest more easily without weight on this injury.”

Lucan bolted to his feet because he was desperate for a fucking job—and yet, for a split second, the supply room was a chaos that his brain couldn’t assimilate into assessable sections. But then he went over to a folding table and grabbed a cloth-wrapped bundle of what had to be sheets. Somehow, they were clean, another miracle.

“How about this?”

“Yes,” Nadya said. “Put that against her posterior. She is too weak to hold herself thus. I would run an IV, but I do not trust what is in those glass bulbs I found. I will sterilize more water and ensure she partakes even if I have to rouse her properly.”

After he made sure Rio had the support she needed, he stepped back. “I have to go to check-in.”

The hood turned to him sharply. “Yes, go if you wish to protect her. I do not want to gain notice, and if you are searched for, they might come here.”

“What about you? What if you need—”

“If I can take care of him,” she nodded down the bed lineup, “I can take care of her. And no one looks for me at check-in anymore. I shall have to thank the Virgin Scribe for the Executioner’s strange superstitions.”

“I’ll leave right now.”

But it was a long moment before he could make himself start walking. And he couldn’t say goodbye to Rio.

Talk about your premonitions. He felt as though if he spoke that word, he might condemn her to death. Or something.

What the fuck did he know.

After weeding his way around the stacks and shelves, he pushed open the door into the basement corridor and dragged a tired hand through his hair.

There was a lot he didn’t get about his situation, himself, right now. And part of the conundrum was that he and Apex apparently had something in common.

Both of them were deeply worried about somebody.

And that was bad news in the prison camp.

The Black Dagger Brotherhood mansion was quiet, all the lovebirds snug in their beds, not a creature a-stirrin’—

Except for the one whose skin was crawling. Whose bones were aching. Whose body was demanding a type of sustenance that had nothing to do with air or water or food. Or blood.

In the billiards room, Vishous stood alone at the bar, a rocks glass filled with Grey Goose swirling, swirling . . . swirling . . . in his gloved hand. His mouth was open slightly, and he breathed through his parted lips.

Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

Sweat had bloomed across his forehead, and he wiped at it in a series of swipes, as if his whole arm had a tic. Underneath his muscle shirt, his pecs were spasming, his abdominals twitching. From time to time, he jerked his head to the left, to the right, the upper vertebrae cracking.