Wolf's Capture (4 page)

The animals she’d used to help draw the wolf had scattered as soon as she stopped humming. The spell that bound them quickly dissipated, and given their status as prey, their protective instincts quickly kicked in. All that remained to remind of their presence was trampled greenery and one comatose guy who would awake to doom.

How ominous. A dire soundtrack of duhn-duhn-duhn played in her head.

“Sassy words will get you punished, pet.”

Blah. Blah. “Name something that doesn’t,” she replied, not cowed in the least.

The master had tried to get her to show respect. Over and over. He’d quickly discovered that, while he could punish her body, her spirit refused to be quelled.

Layla wouldn’t allow it. She held tight to the hope and belief that one day she would escape—
I’m sure Escape #57 is the one
. Yes, she’d kept count over the last few years. She’d learned from each one of her failures.

Don’t hitchhike wearing only a thin gown.

Don’t forget to get the key first before killing your jailor.

Don’t eat the pretty red berries on the bush in the woods unless you need to lose weight.

“You’re ignoring me,” he snapped.

Such an attention whore. “I did what you asked. Give me my chocolate.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’d better kill me because you remember what happened the last time you reneged on a deal.” She went on a hunger strike and refused to do anything.

He’d had to postpone his plans, which didn’t please him at all.

“I should beat you for your impertinence.” Should, but wouldn’t. Oh, he would hurt her, make no mistake, but he wouldn’t kill her or do anything to severely harm her for fear of losing her ability.

So long as she proved useful, he held back.

But she wasn’t holding back. Not anymore.

Of late, she’d been pushing at that invisible line that kept the master from snapping. Pushed and pushed, tired of waiting for rescue to come. Tired of a life spent living in a cage.

Escape #57. It was the lucky number. The one that would finally succeed. She just knew it.

If not, she heard fifty-eight made a good digit.

Waking groggy and on the floor? Hadn’t happened in years.

Must have been some good shit.

Wait a second, he’d neither smoked nor drank anything. This wasn’t a hangover.

I was fucking drugged.

How embarrassing. Like a green-nosed recruit, Brody had sauntered into a trap. He’d never live it down. Boris would make sure of it.

Of course, in order to hear the mockery, first Brody had to escape. Placing himself in a seated position, Brody took stock of his situation.

Cliché was the word that came to mind as he glanced around. Standard cement block basement with an old coal furnace in a corner, its belly currently cold this time of year. Scattered around were stacks of boxes, the mildewed cardboard bulging as dampness and neglect took its toll.

On a wall across from him sat a vintage puke-green washer from the seventies with a knob missing on its display panel, but he’d wager the beast still worked. Those old machines were built to last. A more recent-model white dryer shared a spot alongside, its front panel spotted with rust. To finish off the wondrously uninviting space? A giant cage with him smack-dab in the middle of it.

Because no basement was complete without a prison cell.

For the moment, Brody appeared alone and in surprisingly good shape. Nothing broken, no puddles of blood, no screaming pain in any parts of his body. However, he wasn’t entirely untouched.

What’s this around my neck?
Cold and heavy, it seemed someone had given him some jewelry. His fingers explored the metal band ringing his neck.

Argh. Someone collared me.

Was it childish to want to make choking noises? Probably, and he did restrain himself, but his wolf felt no such need and whined pitifully in his mind.

A wolf could handle plenty of things. However, he’d never willingly give up his freedom.

Getting caught was embarrassing, and Brody could see he’d have to work on escape if he intended to maintain his man card in good standing.

Time to give this contraption the slip.

He felt along the tubular metal ring, searching for a clasp. Only smooth metal met his touch. Seamlessly joined with no hint of a button or trigger.

It’s getting tighter,
whined his wolf.

It wasn’t, but the setback of not quickly removing it didn’t sit well. Brody needed to try something different. Given he was stronger than the average man, he’d snap the fucking thing. Slipping his fingers around the ring, he tugged. He twisted. He cursed a storm—in more than one language.

The damned necklace wouldn’t come off.

Ack. Gurgle.
His wolf collapsed into a mentally traumatized heap.

Brody almost laughed.

You are such a drama king.

His wolf gave him the mental equivalent of the evil eye.

This did make Brody chuckle.

Most shifters were close to their animals, but not all of them considered it a best friend and held actual conversations with it. Okay, more like visualizations since his wolf couldn’t speak words. But via flashes of images and actions, his beast could get his point across.

This understanding didn’t come easily.

Brody really began to connect with his wolf during his longest incarceration. The solitude made for ideal meditation conditions and total mental openness. Open enough to meet his other side and truly come to an understanding.

Brody often credited this unique bond as the reason he’d emerged less damaged than his brothers after his solitary confinement at the hands of the rebels. Don’t get him wrong, he still remembered it with utmost clarity, but given how long ago it had happened, Brody tried to not reflect on it. He’d moved on, even if some of his brothers hadn’t.

Reminiscing about the past wouldn’t help the current situation, nor would placating his wolf over their newest accessory.

“Sorry, buddy,” Brody said aloud. “But the jewelry stays for now. We’ve got other shit to worry about.” Such as himself. Was the collar the only thing he now sported? Any more surprises?

A quick grab of his manparts showed them intact.

Big sigh of relief.

Apparel-wise, Brody still wore his jeans, albeit with empty pockets. No surprise, the gun he kept tucked in the back was gone, as was the knife he’d strapped to his ankle. He remained shirtless, his upper body bare to the cool air of the dank space. It didn’t bother him. He lived in Alaska for fuck’s sake. It got a lot colder than this in the winter, even with clothes.

Twisting to review what he could of his back, and craning to check his torso, he didn’t see anything of concern. Other than a few light bruises and contusions from his manhandling, he appeared no worse for wear.

Clue: whoever captured him wanted him alive for some purpose. That worked for him. An undamaged and conscience wolf was a plotting one.
I’ve yet to meet a prison that can hold me.

And he’d done time in his fair share while conducting his various missions. Lock picking was one of his many skills. Give him something pin-like and he’d have those lock tumblers dancing in no time.

Except this cage didn’t bear a lock. Approaching the bars where he could see the reinforced outline of a door, he tried to spot the locking mechanism. It only concerned him a little when he couldn’t see one. That might prove a challenge, even with his talents.

He’d still prevail. All prisons had a flaw. He just had to find it. He’d done it before in the prison overseas, the one he occupied the longest. In the end, it couldn’t hold him.

Before Brody could reach through the bars and palpate the area around where he’d usually find a lock, he heard the squeak of a door opening. A shaft of daylight illuminated the upper part of a wooden staircase tucked in an opposite corner. When he didn’t note anything to use as a weapon, he crouched, hands tucked at his side, his entire body ready to spring into action—or to morph into almost two hundred pounds of furry menace.

He noted toes first then an ankle. Brody glimpsed most of a calf, too, before the edge of a gown hid the rest. A shame. Bared thighs were a favorite of his. Some guys like breasts or ass, but Brody, he liked a rounded pair of thighs, thighs he could grip.

Except in this case, the only grip he should contemplate was a hand around her neck.

Her.

Down the stairs, head bowed as if watching her steps, descended the woman from the rock.
If it isn’t my friend, Bait.
Bait that he’d fallen for.

He snarled. “You.” He didn’t hide his irritation. Let her realize she’d messed with the wrong dude.

Uncoiling himself, he rose to his full height and approached the bars, grabbing them just as she cried out, “Don’t.”

Sizzle. Burning smell. No frying pan or bacon in sight.

Hmmm. Probably not a good sign.

He yanked his burning hands away from the silver-coated bars. Too late. They were throbbing an angry red. Fuck. That would hurt as it healed.

With the introduction of the silver, the level of difficulty when it came to escape went up. But he’d still prevail. Especially if he could get his hands on the woman who’d dangled herself like a juicy steak.

He glared at her. She didn’t seem intimidated in the least, probably because she had a couple of burly guards at her back. One was skinny as hell, tall though, with long, lanky hair that straggled over his face. The other fellow was shorter but wide and, with his wide forehead, Neanderthal looking. Stickboy and Caveman.

We could totally take them and feast for lunch.

And have the girl for dessert.

Problem was, while he could picture taking down the enforcers, his idea of dessert was less capture of the enemy and more seduction.

Don’t fall for her innocent look, soldier.
Words he needed to heed.

Gotta get my head in the game.

“Have you come to taunt me?” he growled.

“Hardly,” she muttered as she continued to approach him, her bare feet making only the tiniest slapping sound on the dirty concrete floor.

Something about the scenario kept him from retorting. What was going on here? Why did she seem more prisoner than capturer?

A third pair of booted feet came clattering down the stairs.
Oh look, Jackass is coming to help.
The newest arrival looked kind of donkeyish with his giant front teeth and lumpy body. According to Brody’s nose, the guy was human. How interesting. Because Stickboy and Caveman weren’t. And neither was the fourth fellow thumping down the stairs.

“Move to the back of the cage,” he ordered. Buffalo Jim, a big, barrel-chested dude, sporting a scruffy beard, let his unibrow shrink in a menacing fashion. He also growled for effect.

Oh wait, I think that was supposed to scare me.

Snort.

A human and a dumb bovine plus the two wolves who’d brought the girl down. Four in total and they had their weapons holstered. Even better.

Good odds. He could totally take them.

And then we take the girl.

His wolf heartily approved—just not in the way Brody meant.

You’re a dirty dog,
Brody chided his inner friend.
I most certainly did not mean we’d take the girl with her skirt around her waist as she claws at my back, panting.
Even if it sounded fun.
She is the enemy.
There was only one place to go once he escaped, back to Kodiak Point, with the girl as his prisoner.

Because good soldiers didn’t sleep with the enemy for pleasure.

Although, if she wanted to waste her time trying to use her feminine wiles against him, go ahead. Let her try her damnedest with promises of sex, blowjobs, or even fresh-baked cookies. It wouldn’t matter. Brody never compromised his mission, and he wouldn’t start now, not even for an attractive woman.

Apparently ignoring Buffalo Jim set off a short—probably caused by penile inadequacy—fuse.

“You were told to move, dog. Now get your ass away from the fucking door before I make you regret it.” Said with an impressive wiggle and waggle of the unibrow.

It just made Brody itch for a razor.

Forget his fascination with the furry caterpillar on Buffalo’s Jim face. The belligerent idiot had issued him an ultimatum. He knew how to deal with that. Brody’s parents taught him to not listen to strangers, and his sarge, that horned bastard, taught him to tell them where to go. “Fuck you. I am not budging.”

Of course, a challenge like that worked best if you held the upper hand.

Turned out, he didn’t, and they made a liar of him. Brody moved, just not voluntarily.

Thud.

The brand-new necklace he sported served a purpose other than giving him a pimp appearance. It zapped. And he wasn’t talking no tiny electrical charge.

Through its conductive surface, it fried him with a steady stream of electricity, enough to send him to his knees, enough to keep him there while the door to the cage opened and the woman was thrust in.

The electrifying experience, which was much on par with getting Tasered, something he’d only experienced once—a training exercise led by his favorite rhino—lasted only until the door slammed shut and was locked again.

Dammit. He missed the tiny details of how it worked, being somewhat distracted by the ongoing jiggle-like-water-on-hot-pavement effect of his electrocution.

Did they use a key? A touch pad? He still didn’t know, but he did hear the sound of bolts sliding home.

The current cut off abruptly, but the memory of the pain lingered, leaving him panting on his knees.

Undignified, and unacceptable.

Now that he knew to expect it, he’d react better the next time. Yes, he could almost guarantee a next time. Lots of time spent in various jails didn’t mean he’d learned to become a model prisoner. He got punished a lot.

But, for once, it seemed he might get rewarded because the situation had just become extremely interesting. He was still caged, wearing a collar, but he was no longer alone. He shared his cell with a woman. And not just any woman, the woman who’d lured him in to a trap.