Blackwolf's Redemption

Sienna tried to swallow. Impossible. Terror had leeched the moisture from her mouth. The man watched the motion of her throat, then lifted his eyes to her face again.

“Are you hurt?”

Was she? Carefully, she flexed her fingers, her toes, her back.

“I don’t—”

“Do you ache anywhere?”

Why would he care? Still, her response was automatic. “My head.”

One hand left her shoulder, rose to her head. She jerked away, or would have jerked away, but his other hand came up to cup her jaw and hold her head still while his fingers explored her scalp. His touch was light, almost gentle, a sharp contrast to his face, his body, his voice—but she knew it didn’t mean a thing. She had studied indigenous cultures in which the warriors treated their captives relatively gently until the moment of—

“Aah.”

Sienna hissed in pain. The man grunted.

“You’ve got a lump behind your ear.” His hands shifted, began a slow trip down her throat, along her shoulders.

“Don’t,” she said, but he paid no attention as he worked his way to her toes. His touch was efficient, not intimate, but that didn’t keep it from adding to her terror.

“How many fingers?”

She blinked. “What?”

“How many fingers do you see?”

She looked at his upraised hand. “Three.”

“And now?”

“Four. Who are you?”

Carefully, she rose on her elbows, felt the coldness of stone beneath her bare arms.

He leaned closer. She flinched back. He gave an impatient growl, caught hold of her shoulders and leaned toward her.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your pupils.”

It was unnerving. Those black eyes boring into hers.

“My pupils are fine.”

“Turn your head. Again. Slowly. Good. I’m going to roll you over.”

“You are not going to—”

But he did. His hands danced over her, his touch still impersonal. When he was finished, he turned her on her back, slid an arm under her shoulders and sat her up.

The world spun. There was a kind of buzzing sensation in her head, as if a swarm of tiny bees had found their way inside and set up housekeeping.

Sienna moaned.

The man’s arm tightened around her. It was a strong, hard arm, deeply tanned by the sun, muscled and toned by work. She wanted to jerk away from him, but she didn’t have the strength and even if she had, she knew he wouldn’t have permitted it.

At last, the earth stopped spinning. She took a deep, shaky breath.

“I’m—I’m okay.”

He let go of her. She swayed a little, and he cursed and wrapped his arm around her again.

“Put your head down.”

“It isn’t nec—”

“Put it down.”

She complied. What choice was there when he was glaring at her? The last thing she wanted to do was anger a madman. He was angry enough already. At what? At her? Was anger a sign of psychosis? If only she’d paid more attention to those psych courses…

“Take another couple of deep breaths. That’s it.” He held her a moment longer. Then he let go and put a few inches of distance between them. “Your name?”

It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Should she tell him her name or shouldn’t she? She’d once read that violent criminals generally didn’t want to know anything about their victims, which was exactly why some shrinks thought you might save your life by making your kidnapper, your rapist, see you as an individual.

Your rapist, Sienna thought, and swallowed a wild rush of hysterical laughter. It sounded so mundane. Your hair stylist. Your bus driver.

Your rapist.

“Answer me. What’s your name?”

She took a breath. “I’m Sienna Cummings. Who are you?”

“How did you get here?”

Where? She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until his eyes narrowed to inky slits.

“Pleading amnesia won’t work. Neither will avoiding my questions. How did you get here?”

She looked at him. “Where is here?” she said, in such a small voice that Jesse was tempted to believe her.

But she’d told him her name. Yeah, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d dealt with enough wounded men to know that there was such a thing as selective memory loss. She might know her name but not anything else.

Or, he thought coldly, she might be lying through that soft-looking, rosy mouth.

“Here,” he said grimly, “is my property.”

“Blackwolf Canyon?” She shook her head. “You don’t own this place.”

“Trust me, lady. I damned well do. Every tree, every rock, every speck of dirt is mine.”