Chapter 3

Briar May

Darkness filled her head, but bright pin pricks of light pierced through it. Her mind was full of mist, her brain as heavy in her skull as her tongue was fuzzy and cumbersome in her mouth. She tried to swallow down the bitter, foul taste, but her throat wouldn’t work. There wasn’t enough moisture in her mouth, or her brain was too foggy to instruct her body to obey. Her temples throbbed, growing worse as she struggled to peel her heavy eyelids open.

“Because of that stunt, our lives are both at risk now. We’re no doubt being hunted by your pack as well as mine. The difference, little wolf, is that my pack are seasoned warriors trained to kill. We have one of the best trackers on our side. At least, we did.” Footsteps. Floorboards groaning. The smell of dust in the air. Beyond that, the scent of fresh air, blue skies, wild grass. “I say on our side, but he’s no longer on mine. He’s against me, and I know that going to the ends of the earth won’t be far enough to escape. I’m going to ask you this and ask you once only. I know you’re awake. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

She forced her eyes open with effort, her head swimming and her stomach lurching. At least she was a shifter and they healed fast. There was a sudden flash of recollection—a crash, being taken somewhere, being drugged. Being held.

Her heart started racing as her eyes took in her surroundings. Old. The room, everything she could see from the dirty old mattress on the floor that she’d been spread out on, was old. Not just old fashioned. Real old. Abandoned old.

“Here.” A plastic water bottle was thunked down right in front of her face. It was only half full and she wondered what the hell else could be in there, but her mouth was so dry she unscrewed the cap and gulped down the contents.

Her eyes travelled warily up the heavy, dusty combat boots, up the black fatigues, to the tightly fitted black t-shirt. She stopped there. She knew who was with her by his scent. Somehow, even though she was aware that the house was near stifling, he still smelled like lemons and herbs. A little like black licorice and dark spices.

She recalled the vicious gleam of his axe heads and shivered.

He nudged her toe. Barefoot. Where were her sandals? She was still in the same blue dress that she loved so much.

“I’m only going to ask you this once,” he repeated. “What was all that about in the Jeep?”

What was he talking about?

Suddenly, it all crashed back on her. The twins, running ahead and her urgent need to save them. Racing headlong at the intruding warriors. Being wrapped in that stone-studded chain trapped in human form. Hefted up in the rigid bands of steel that were actually arms. The Jeep and that chest, so warm and that feeling of being home. The scent that filled up the vehicle.

The bonding scent.

No, it couldn’t be true.

Maybe it was a fear response? Maybe because she couldn’t shift, her body had gone and done something else? Because if it wasn’t that, it meant that in that moment, against her will and her understanding, against everything in her heart and soul, her body cried out for the very devil himself.

Hades.

She didn’t have an answer for him. She pressed her lips together even knowing full well that to piss this man off would likely lead to some unsavory consequences for her. He’d drugged her. He’d taken her. How many days had she been out? Where were they? The only thing she knew for certain was that she was still his prisoner.

She wanted to feel fear, damn it she should feel fear! Yet it was like something deep inside her told her that this man was not the enemy.

Yeah, right.

Her eyes rolled around the room as if it held the answers to any of those questions. The walls were plaster, the boards showing through from the outside. The floorboards were splintered and worn, wide spaced planks. All of it looked rough and weathered. A few scraps of old newspapers stubbornly clung to the wall where they’d once been used for insulation. A calendar from the nineteen sixties fluttered like a ghostly prisoner on the far wall, the yellowed pages half torn away.

She twisted her head and caught sight of a crumbled wooden staircase in such a state of ruin that it would be impassible. The second floor sagged near the doorway, the entrance to the kitchen. She could make out the door, hanging at an angle in the frame like an old soldier refusing to abandon its post. It had been barricaded with broken furniture, scraps, and an old stove. The windows were mostly boarded up from the inside.

Had Hades done that? How? It wasn’t like there was a hammer and nails lying around, was there? One window was left open. It faced a field of overgrown hay. Did the road lie in that direction? Was that why he’d left it open, staring vacantly at the outside world? It brought fresh air into the small room. The breeze smelled like alfalfa, like summer, like freedom. It brought tears to her eyes.

Those heavy boots stalked away a few paces. It was safer to look at them than straight into the devil’s eyes. Her heart rate had slowed again, and her mind was clearing, shaking off the confusion as one shakes off the remnants of a half-remembered dream.

“This is a situation that neither of us expected to be in, but staring out the window isn’t going to help. Your destiny is now linked with mine and the sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for you. I can’t let you go, and I can’t go back to my pack.”

“Destiny? Are you insane, or did you hit your head in the crash?”

“I’m not the one who smelled of bonding, little wolf.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Briar May.”

“Don’t you dare use my name.” She wasn’t going to ask how he knew her name. She knew he was the dangerous kind of man who knew things and did things. Not just a man. A mercenary wolf who no doubt led a vile shiftless existence. She had no explanation for what happened in the vehicle, but she knew damn well that this killer in front of her was not her mate. Bonding be damned.

She took in a deep breath—other than the smell of alfalfa and the dark spice and licorice of her captor, there was nothing else. She hadn’t bonded with him, was not going to bond with him. It was clearly a panic response.

“There’s nothing you’ll find anywhere in here that will aid your escape.” He walked to the glassless window. She finally dared enough to sweep her eyes up from his boots and over the rest of him. He still looked every inch the brutal Viking from some distant shore and time, dropped into the wrong century.

He also looked tired. Not pissed. She couldn’t tear her eyes away and his features visibly hardened, closing off. He wasn’t just solid. He was an impenetrable fortress. He crossed his arms over his chest and heat filled her at the way the movement made his pecs and abs flex, turning him from stone into something human, but no less soft. He had to be at least six five. His eyes were too blue. Too cold. The intensity of his cold, dead eyes contrasted brutally with the gold of his skin. The whole evil, fearful marauder image was only made complete by the rusty red stains dotting his face, his neck, and spilling onto his arms and hands. His blood. The blood of those two men. He hadn’t even stopped to wipe his hands clean. He was standing there, a man animated, but the spirit of him had been sucked out long ago.

She wanted to tear her eyes away and study the old wooden floorboards, but they were fixed on the mercenary wolf as if by command. His arms flexed, the muscles bulging, veins like wires under his heavily inked skin, the black scrolling up and dancing like the caress of a lover.

She suddenly had a flash of her fingers stroking the designs of his tattoos.

Her mouth was already dry from the drugging and the water had done little to abate her thirst, but it reached a new level of bone earth dry. After a second try, her body finally obeyed, and she looked to the window again.