The Bureau (A Cage for Men and Wolves Book 1)

by Michelle Kay

  "Now, let’s get to the questions. Just a 'yes' or 'no' will do. Do you know what Elliot is doing with the data he got from Central Records?"

  She should tell him. Who would suffer if she did? Elliot? What did she care if he suffered? He was a murderer just like his brother, just like all the other Bureau workers who liked playing god with the lives of innocent people. He was no light, he was just a softer shade of darkness.

  Then she remembered the weight of his arm across his shoulders. "No."

  With her answer still on her lips, Rainer drove her head into the table. A whisper of metal was her only warning before pain burst from her ear, turning her vision white. She screamed as hot blood coursed across her cheek. Then the hand in her hair was gone and she was reeling back, her head tilting to try and staunch the bleeding that saturated her uniform sleeve. When the blinding static receded, she saw Rainer toss a tiny lump of brown and red flesh onto the table.

  "I don't believe you."

  Clover was distantly aware of the way her legs thrashed under the table, and the way her body tried to squirm away from the lobe that was no longer part of her.

  "Question number two." Rainer prefaced himself. "Is he looking for children? Boys?"

  Without even registering the question properly, her head shook wildly. It wasn't until a hand snagged in her hair again that she remembered her brother and sister at all. They were looking for children. Her head was pulled back until she felt the skin at the front of her neck pull tight, like her throat would break open if she swallowed too hard. Through her tears she saw Rainer perched over her, then felt the touch of metal against the septum of her nose.

  "Go ahead and lie again. I’ll make sure this one hurts more." Rainer growled in her face, the blades of the cutter pressing hard into her nostrils. "Is he searching for anything on the Argentum Project?"

  "I don't even know what that means!" She could hear the hysteria in her own voice as her feet slid over the floor, trying to push away from her tormentor.

  "You're lying!" His hand squeezed tight in her hair.

  "I'm not. I'm not, I swear." Clover was choking on her own tears and her voice raised in a shriek as she felt the pressure on her nose intensify, then Rainer stilled completely. Through her crying she realized that another person had entered the room, the familiar voice seeming alien in this closed off world Rainer had created for her.

  "It's the head of Internals." Pierson' voice. It was sharp as ever, but somehow a welcomed softness.

  "Tell him I'm busy." The stiffness of Rainer's voice made Clover's body shake with another unmanaged sob.

  "I’ve already tried that one. He insists."

  Clover gulped for air, trying not to move as the clippers stayed poised at the sensitive juncture of her nostrils.

  "Don't go anywhere," Rainer said through a growl of annoyance before slapping the clippers onto the table between the bullets and the small, ejected part of her body.

  Clover didn't open her eyes until she heard the door scrape shut. She'd thought that seeing him leave would staunch the flow of tears, instead they just increased. She was relieved that he was gone, but in equal measure she was horrified by the inevitability that he would be back and they would have to start this disgusting cycle over again. As minutes passed, the convulsive tears eased and she rested her head on the table, the cold of the metal dulling the pain in her ear.

  Her mind raced through thoughts that were too fuzzy and too jumbled to make any sense of.

  Why was she doing this? Rainer would find her pack without her help, her family was lost to the system, and Elliot would stand aside when it was time for his brother to take control of the Bureau. Something squirmed inside her when she thought of him—when she thought of the beacon he’d become for people like Jeannette. She had pretended she couldn’t see the light he gave off, determined to only see the crimes he committed with his pen. Now, under Rainer’s fist, she saw that the light was really there, and that it was blinding. She couldn’t tarnish Elliot’s name. She couldn’t hurt his chances of becoming Director. No matter what.

  Clover thought she might have fallen asleep when her body jerked off the table, the scraping of the door seeming violent as it bounced around the room. Her stomach twisted painfully as she waited for Rainer to barrel through the door, but instead, her familiar guards appeared. If she looked as helpless as she felt, she was sure they activated her shock collar just so they could hurt her more. Her body stiffened with the jolt of electricity and threatened to topple out of the chair. Then she was limp and her hands were being released. Even if she'd had the strength to fight back, she didn't have the urge to any more.

  She was bagged and cuffed and led out of the room, her legs shaking as she was corralled down the hall. The promise of solitude that her cell offered seemed like a welcome break from the interrogation room, but they'd been walking longer than normal. Then the stale air gave way to something better circulated, and she heard voices. More light seeped through the rough weave of the bag. She wasn’t being led to her cell, she was in a main hallway again. She stumbled when her guards stopped walking and she heard a door open in front of her. Chairs scuffed on the floor as a hand yanked the bag from her head.

  She blinked against the bright light, her eyes trying to remember how to focus in something more powerful than the dim bulbs of her cell. Even the interrogation room seemed dim in comparison. She was in an office she didn't recognize. A grey-haired man sat behind the desk, his unfocused frame looking severe, and on her side of the furniture were two blurry lumps of men in black uniforms. Even through the overexposed blur, she recognized Rainer immediately. She felt herself knock into the guard who stood behind her as she lurched away from him, her body reacting on instinct now that she wasn't strapped to a table.

  "Clover."

  Distantly, she recognized the voice coming from the other black-suited figure, but was unable to look away from the violent stare Rainer had locked on her. She wished her sight hadn't cleared, then she wouldn't have to read the promise of pain she saw in his eyes. Fingers gripped her shoulder, talons that would force her toward her interrogator.

  "Clover!"

  Finally, she turned to the second figure and she felt something wash over her that she’d nearly forgotten—relief. It was Elliot's hand on her shoulder—there were no talons and he wasn't pushing her. He was steadying her. His eyes seemed brighter, greener than she remembered them and for a second she wanted to throw herself against him, then she looked back at Rainer.

  While Elliot's eyes seemed brighter than she'd remembered, Rainer's seemed darker. Even the air around him seemed to be sucked of light, like just his presence was enough to poison the room. A hand touched Clover's face, and her eyes were guided back to Elliot's. "Can you walk?"

  Kept from looking back at the black hole of a man standing across the room, Clover managed to nod, even as her legs shook. Elliot's hand moved to her arm and Clover felt him squeeze gently, tightening in the promise of support.

  "Thank you for your help, Sir." Elliot's stature was solid as he faced the man at the desk and his brother.

  "Just keep her under control. And make sure she shows up for her hearing." The grating voice that came from the older man sounded impatient.

  "Yessir."

  Then they were gone. Clover walked out the door like she'd been free to do so all along. They were both silent as Elliot guided her through the building, which was crowded with workers. It was a week day already? How long had she been there? Workers in the hallway, human and werewolf alike, parted for them as they walked by. Clover didn’t meet any eyes, but she knew she must look at least as bad as she felt—whispers trailed them as they moved down halls that seemed longer than she remembered them.

  Several times, Clover's feet went numb and tangled under her body, but Elliot's hand on her arm stayed firm and kept her up. She was happy for the wall to lean on once they were inside the elevator.

  "Are you alright?" Elliot asked again, not turning to
look at her, probably to keep up appearances for the camera Clover assumed was there now.

  "Do I look alright?" Any other time, the retort might have seemed biting, but her voice was hoarse and weak.

  "You look awful." He stole a quick glance at her, and Clover recognized the concern in his voice. It was the kind of concern she remembered hearing from Aunt Sandra.

  "Well, I feel at least as bad as I look." It was hard for Clover to understand why she was playing this game of tough words. Less than an hour ago she'd been a sobbing, pathetic lump of a person. Why was she so determined to keep Elliot, one of the only people she had on her side at the moment, from seeing her that way?

  Elliot was still and quiet. He licked his lips a few times, as though preparing to say something, but he never followed through. Finally, just before the doors opened, as he was gripping her arm again to help her off the wall, he whispered to her. "Sorry I can't help more. I figured you'd be embarrassed if I carried you."

  A swell of affection that Clover couldn't rename any more pulled her lips into a pained smile. "Thank you."

  She really did see his light. Not because he could help her people, but because he understood her—maybe in a way that even her pack-mates didn't. He understood her pride, her need to be strong in front of her enemies, and he didn't chastise her for it. He supported it. The last leg of the walk to the front doors seemed a bit easier knowing that he was helping her make her statement; she might be limping away like a wounded animal, but she was doing it on her own two feet.

  Clover was jostled awake by the sudden stop of the taxi Elliot had flagged down outside the Bureau. She'd never been in a car before, but the novelty of it was lost on her. Her chin had dropped to her chest before they'd turned off the main street outside the massive building, her neck muscles unable to support the weight of her head any more. They were parked outside the narrow row of houses as she came to, and before Clover realized he'd even gotten out of the car, Elliot was opening her door, his hands guiding her out of her seat.

  A pressure formed behind her eyes as Clover was led up the walk toward the stained glass door. She wondered when she'd started seeing this building as someplace safe and someplace to be missed, but as Elliot unlocked the door, releasing the familiar smells of polished wood and cologne, she realized it didn't matter why.

  Her body jerked when Elliot’s bag hit the floor and for a second she thought the siren was about to sound. Before she could feel embarrassed about it, Elliot had lifted her off her feet. It was strange—being carried by the man who used to be her prisoner, who she used to fantasize about killing—but now she wondered why she'd not let him carry her from the start. Besides, she was too tired to worry about fighting him.

  "God, you're freezing." Elliot's voice had lost the steady composure she'd heard inside the Bureau and in the taxi.

  She tried to think of something witty to say, but as he laid her onto his bed she realized it wasn't worth the effort.

  "I'm going to get the first aid kit." He was pulling the blankets up around her, not bothering to remove even her shoes.

  Clover watched him make a pit stop at the thermostat, and heard the heater kick on, then he disappeared into the bathroom. She felt her mouth curve ever so slightly into the shadow of a smile. He was fussing over her. It was startling to think how much she liked that idea.

  She thought she'd just blinked, but was startled when Elliot's hand tilted her head to the side. She'd not heard him approach at all.

  "Shhh. I'm just looking at your ear." He used his free hand to press her shoulder back into the mattress again. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

  Clover realized she hurt everywhere. Even parts of her that couldn't be hurt physically were in pain.

  "He broke two of my fingers." She unburied her hand from the blankets to show him.

  Her middle and ring finger were swollen, dark bands of bruising wrapped around the longest parts of them. She also noticed a strange angle where the bone normally ran straight between her two knuckles.

  Elliot didn't say anything as he took her hand to get a better look at the injured fingers. Finally, in a soft tone he said, "We should have a doctor look at this."

  "No." Clover said immediately, pulling her hand away from him. "I don't want to risk anyone else going through my files. I'll be fine. We heal fast."

  "It doesn't matter how fast you heal if the bones aren't lined up right. These have to be set."

  "No." This time Clover put some force behind the word, tucking her hand back under the blankets. "I'll be fine. I just need to sleep."

  Elliot watched her a second, as though trying to decide if he should press the issue or not. Then he sighed and nodded. "Okay. Turn on your side so I can at least clean your ear."

  Clover started the motion, but found it difficult to follow through until Elliot's hand on her back helped to ease her over. As he used his fingers to comb dirty hair away from her injury, Clover took a steadying breath. She hadn't been able to see her injury yet, but knew it was bad when Elliot hissed under his breath. She could feel where he was pulling hair out of dried patches of blood.

  "How is it?" Her voice warbled and she sucked her lips between her teeth to silence the quivering.

  "The whole lobe is gone."

  Clover nodded, unable to speak. His whisper had sounded strangled. The sensation of cold metal being drawn along her skin surged in her stomach and she pulled the pillow into her face, hoping she could smother the hysteria she felt lapping against the bulwark of her stability. As she steadied her breathing, she realized that Elliot's hand was still in her hair, but not to draw the strands away from her injury any more. He was soothing her, petting her hair back from her face over and over. She wanted to swat it away, the gentleness in his fingers making it harder to keep her armor from falling down around her.

  Instead of slapping the offending hand, she was lulled deeper into the softness of the bed—into the smell of the pillow. She'd be able to refuse his pity better once she'd slept.

  - 24 -

  Clover was in the interrogation room again, her hands bound to the top of the table. The surface felt cold enough to burn her skin, and her lungs struggled to breathe around the pounding of her heart. It wasn't right—she'd escaped.

  The sound of the door scraping the concrete floor froze everything as her interrogator stepped into the steadily shrinking room. All the weight in her body sunk to her gut as Elliot approached the table, blood shining down the front of his uniform, his hair combed straight back from his face the way his brother wore his.

  Clover's mouth opened like a gasping fish, but not a single sound or breath escaped her. She knew he wasn't there to question her—he was there to hurt her—and as he raised the hammer he'd carried in with him, she felt a spear of betrayal pin her to the chair. Her hand shattered under the weight of her traitor's weapon.

  Clover woke up to pain tearing through her arm in spasms. Elliot was at her bedside, but he had her wrist clamped between his bicep and ribcage, his free hand wrapped tight around her broken finger.

  "I'm sorry," he shouted over her screaming and kicking. "Just one more and they'll be set."

  Using her good hand she pushed at his face, trying to wrench her other arm out of his grasp. He closed an eye against the threat of fingernails, and with one more yank, she felt a crunching, popping sensation, followed by another jolt of pain. This time, when she screamed, he released her hand. He must have expected her to retaliate, because he caught her good arm before she could land a single hit. He took hold of her bad arm too, obviously not convinced she wouldn't use it as a weapon.

  "I'm sorry, Clover. I'm sorry, but it had to be done."

  "Let go of me," she wailed around the tears that had started before she'd even woken up.

  "Shh."

  Clover realized that he wasn't trying to ward her off. He was pulling her in. She struggled against him for a moment, but as his arms closed around the back of her shoulders she felt the anger seep out of her.
She was still breathing hard, the renewed pain pounding all the way to her shoulder.

  "You asshole." She spoke into his shirt—one of the regular tees he wore at home.

  "I know." His voice was quiet, but not in the overly patient way she normally heard from him. "I'm sorry. But they're set now, so they should start to heal soon."

  With one arm stationed across her back, Elliot's other hand moved to her hair again, petting the tangles away from her face, his thumb and fingertips trailing over her forehead and temple.

  "You're really strong," he murmured. "You'll heal in no time. Everything will be fine."

  Clover felt her armor shudder in response to the soothing tone she’d never noticed in his voice.

  "You’ll be okay."

  These words were familiar. She'd heard them muttered to members of her pack who had lost loved ones. She knew they were just part of a script you followed to comfort those who were grieving. But, somehow, hummed into her ear in the even cadence Elliot had, the words felt more powerful. She felt like he meant them and that, just by saying them out loud, he was making them true.

  In the face of that gentleness, and as Clover realized he was rocking her just slightly, she knew she couldn't preserve her armor any more, and that she didn't want to. She could feel his breath against her good ear as he shushed her when the first sob wrung itself from her body. Then there was no going back.

  It was hard to tease out what she was crying for. She was crying because of her ear and because of her fingers. She was crying in relief that she was safe and in response to the impossible depth her fear had reached. But she was also crying because it had just been so long since she'd cried for herself, for her situation, and she was tired of keeping up her pretense of strength.