by J. D. Tyler
“Lacerated spleen,” Zan rasped. “Give me a couple more minutes.”
Minutes. To heal a serious internal injury. Half the population wouldn’t believe in Zan’s talent, and the other half would line up at his door if they knew. For her part, she saw the truth with her own eyes. That’s all she needed.
Ryon blinked, his lashes fluttering. He stared up at his companions, awareness of what had happened dawning slowly. “God, I thought I was done. Are those damned things dead?”
Zan patted his shoulder. “Yep. Kalen turned them into birthday balloons and popped ’em.”
“Gross.”
“Come on, let’s get your clothes on and then I’ll take you back to the helicopter.”
“Uh-uh. If our friends are in there, I’m not missing out on the reunion. Just help me up.” He paused. “The spirits are upset, urging us to hurry.”
Zan and Nick pulled Ryon to his feet. Rowan returned Jax’s gun to him, then turned away while Ryon dressed, too eaten with guilt to appreciate the sight of his fine naked body. He’d sacrificed himself for her—a stranger—without a second thought and nearly died for his trouble.
As a cop, putting herself on the line for people she didn’t know was what she did. Why did it bother her to be on the receiving end?
When everyone was ready, Nick gestured toward the back door. “Let’s stay together this time and follow the ghosts’ advice to get a move on. I’m sensing it won’t be long before reinforcements show up.”
They headed for the back stoop and filed inside cautiously, Rowan in the middle of the line. She couldn’t see as well in the gloom as they likely could, but her sense of smell didn’t need to be equal to theirs to guess what waited for them. The stench clogged her lungs, and fear for Micah seized her heart.
“Holy Christ,” Kalen gasped from somewhere in front. “I know Chappell and his docs don’t care about how they hurt others with their experiments, but how can they stand to work in this awful smell?”
“Probably just used to it,” Nick said.
Someone found a light switch and flipped it on. The group stood in the area that used to house the pews but now was a large, mostly empty room. A utility table and folding chairs were placed near one wall, and four camping cots topped with sleeping bags and pillows were in different corners.
“Where did the scientists go?” she wondered aloud.
Nick answered. “They’re either hiding while waiting for more backup, or went into the nearest town for a while and have no clue we’re here. This way.”
A set of double doors at the rear of the room took them into a hallway leading to what had once been classrooms where various groups had held their Bible studies. Now many of the rooms were full of computers and lab equipment. Methodically, the men checked each room along the way for booby traps, locating five trip wires attached to explosives, which they carefully disarmed.
At the end of the hallway, the smell, unbelievably, got worse. Nick eased the last door open, looked down, and pointed. Jax got busy dismantling the last trip wire, and then they were in. Jax flipped on the light, and they rushed inside—straight into a nightmare.
“Aw, fuck me,” Hammer moaned.
Rowan stared, unable to process what she was seeing. Cages lined two walls of what might’ve once been a storage room, currently being used as a prison. And inside the small cages were men. Filthy, naked men too large for the restrictive space, lying curled on their sides. Some staring and unresponsive to their arrival, some unconscious.
There. A man with long, tangled brown hair. Could it be… ?
She was moving before she realized it. “Micah?” Reaching the cage, she dropped to her knees—and the air left her lungs. She’d know her brother anywhere, no matter how changed his appearance. She rattled the door and cried out. “Somebody find a key! Micah!”
Zan knelt beside her and sniffed the air. “By God, it is him!” He touched the bars and quickly drew his hand back with a curse. “Silver, and this stuff burns. We’re going to need gloves,” he called out.
“Aric’s over here,” Jax shouted.
Ryon jingled a key ring. “These were hanging on the wall. We’ll just have to try them and see if any fit.” He tossed it to Zan, then walked over to a workbench, grabbed an old rag, and brought it over. “No gloves. Use this.”
First Zan tried the keys one by one until at last one fit the lock. He turned it, careful not to brush the silver bars again, then used the rag to open the door before handing the ring to Ryon by the correct key. “Hopefully this is a master that’ll open the others.”
Ryon moved off, but Rowan’s attention was solely on the still form of her brother. When Zan started to move forward, she pushed him back. “Let me. I’m strong enough to move a person and there’s no sense in you getting burned.”
Not waiting for the man’s answer, she got down into a low crouch, inching her upper half into the cage. Resolutely tamping down the rage at Micah’s horrid condition, she grabbed him under his arms and began to drag him backward. When she had his shoulders out, Zan helped and together they laid him on the floor between them.
The physical mess that had once been a gorgeous man broke her heart. His once lean, athletic build was emaciated, his collarbones and every one of his ribs visible. His hair was matted and greasy, and his bearded face…
She sucked in a breath, tears pricking her eyes. All their lives, Micah had turned heads everywhere he went because of his nearly blinding beauty, which shone from both within and without. Someone had taken great pains to destroy that wonderful light. The left side of his face from the bridge of his nose, down his cheek, and curling under his jaw, was a puckered expanse of scar tissue that his uneven beard had not grown over. It appeared healed, and looked very much like the perpetrator had poured something hot over that side of his face.
“I’ll kill them all.” She didn’t realize she’d said that aloud until Zan spoke.
“You’ll have to stand in line.” Zan’s serious gaze met hers.
She looked back to her brother. “You’re going to be all right now. I love you.”
“Come on, honey. Move back and let us help him.”
Normally she would’ve torn the man a new one for calling her “honey” while ordering her away from the one person who meant the most to her. It was a testament to how shell-shocked she was that she didn’t argue, but simply stood and watched Zan perform what healing he could on Micah’s scar-riddled body.
Elation at finding him alive warred with helplessness. She was a human out of her depth in a game of monsters, as ineffectual as a fly on a dragon’s ass. The other activity in the space near her finally registered and she glanced around to observe the others, busy removing four more victims from their cramped prisons.
Immediately her attention was snagged by Jaxon bent over one of the men, his expression one of pure anguish.
“Aric, I’m sorry. So sorry,” he repeated. “I had to save my mate, but you have to believe I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please—”
“Jax?” Aric’s voice was hoarse, and he swallowed as though talking was extremely painful.
“Yes?”
“Shut the fuck up before you give me an aneurysm.”
Ryon covered Aric’s lower half with a blanket, grinning. “You haven’t lost your charm, I see.”
“Fuck you, too, twerp.”
Jax choked out a half laugh, half sob and fell quiet, but he didn’t let go of his friend’s hand. Curious, Rowan edged closer to get a better look at Aric… and the air left her lungs. This time for an entirely different reason.
The man was, quite simply, beautiful.
He was tall and lean, with a broad, muscular chest. A stunning Celtic tattoo swirled over his left pectoral and over his shoulder, the head of a howling wolf set in the center of the design. Long, dark auburn hair that must have fallen halfway down his back pooled around his head. His face was chiseled, with high cheekbones and full, sensual lips. A nice, square masculine jaw
that weeks of not being able to shave couldn’t hide saved his countenance from being too pretty, and piercing green eyes held more than a little cynicism, like life had taken a giant dump in his front yard one too many times.
He looked like a proud man, she thought. Gazing at the ceiling, muscles tense, tight lines bracketing his fine mouth. He hated being vulnerable in front of his Pack, hated to need anyone. Even them. How she knew this she couldn’t say, but she did. Something about him drew her, and she almost smiled at the image of the proverbial moth and flame. Would have if the situation hadn’t been so serious.
Then his head turned and those green eyes found hers. Pain and exhaustion shadowed their depths, but his spark of stubbornness refused to give in. Slowly, his lips tilted up. “Well, I must be dead after all,” he said softly. “If this is heaven, sign me up, angel.”
His dark lashes swept closed and his body went slack. She tried to recall the last time a man had said anything to her that was so… poetic, and sort of suggestive. Her brain came up pathetically empty.
Shaken, Rowan stared at the unconscious man for a few seconds, then returned to her brother’s side, telling herself she needed to stay with him. She’d never run from anyone or anything in her life.
And she sure wasn’t about to start with a smart-mouthed, redheaded wolf shifter with killer green eyes. She could handle him.
No sweat.
Five
Aric awoke to the scent of clean sheets and antiseptic. He was lying on something soft, his body cocooned by warmth. A bed, cushioning his hurts.
For a while he lay still, wondering how that could be. He struggled to recall, and foggy images crept in.
Torture. His body invaded. Despair. Discovering Micah. Jax, his brothers, suddenly there—along with a stunning woman. Then he must’ve passed out.
Was he safe, then? His eyelids didn’t want to cooperate, but he finally coaxed them open. When his bleary vision cleared, he could’ve wept. This was the compound’s infirmary. After weeks of hell, he was home.
A wave of emotions threatened to drown him, but he fought it down. No sense to bawl like a damned baby now that he was tucked firmly in the bosom of his Pack. Compared to Micah, he wasn’t even in such bad shape. He lifted one hand to his face and realized someone, probably a nurse, had shaved off the itchy beard. That made him feel somewhat better.
“Hey, how’s my favorite redhead?” Mackenzie slipped into his room, shutting the door behind her, and came to stand by his bed. The woman had that pleasant doctor expression down pat—friendly and encouraging her patient to spill his guts.
“Ready to party.” Christ, he sounded like his throat had been scrubbed with a Brillo pad. “Get your dancin’ shoes on and we’ll paint the town.”
“Sarcastic as always, I see.” Taking his wrist between her thumb and forefinger, she did a quick check of his pulse.
“The day I’m not, that’s when you really need to worry.”
A half smile curved her lips as she released his wrist. “True. But with a minimum of snark, tell me truthfully how you’re doing.”
Wasn’t easy managing a shrug while lying down, but he pulled it off. “I’m alive, healing. I’m good. When can I get sprung?”
“Aric.”
“I’m thinking I’ll just go chill in my room and—”
“Aric.” Pulling up a chair, she laid a hand on his forearm. “This is me you’re talking to. It’s not the scars on the outside that concern me.”
He snorted a laugh, ignoring the twinge of pain it caused all over. “Yeah, and this is me you’re talking to, so you know I don’t do the feelings and head-shrinking crap. Besides, no one wants to know.”
“I do,” she stressed.
“You get paid to care,” he snapped. “You’re a doctor.”
Mac’s eyes widened as she was taken aback, but she quickly composed herself. “I’m your friend, too, and I know you well enough to get when you’re deflecting. I also know you don’t take well to lazing around, so if you want to be cleared for duty again, you will open up.”
His gut clenched. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“Damn it, Mac.” Fisting his hands at his sides, he stared at the IV stuck in the back of his right one. A minute ticked by, two, while he struggled with how to put his damned feelings into words. “I’m not going to freeze up on the next op, if that’s what everyone’s worried about.”
“Okay. What will you do?”
“Rip them all to fucking pieces and torch the remains. What else?”
Her expression softened. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Why? Because I’m letting out healthy anger or some such shit?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m stating a fact—they’ll pay.”
“Anger can be healthy if it’s directed at the right target.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? What other target would I…” Then he got it. Shit. “You think I still blame Jax for what happened to me?”
“Do you?” She leaned forward, her gaze pinning him to the bed.
“What? No!” But the lie almost strangled him.
“But you did at one time,” she pointed out. “You said ‘still.’”
Looking away, he thought about it. In captivity, he’d thought about the choice Jax had made, saving his mate’s life instead of his brother’s. About being hauled into that helicopter, the horror of realizing there was a very good chance he’d never see the Pack again. The endless torture, and yes, in his darkest hour, hating Jax. Cursing him for what he’d done.
But wasn’t that justice for what you’ve done to him and the team?
Taking a couple of calming breaths, he was able to tell Mac what she wanted to hear. Not necessarily the unvarnished truth. “I hated him, for a while. Or thought I did. But the second I saw him—was it last night?”
“Yes.”
“When I saw him last night, and he was so torn up over it… I knew it wasn’t Jax I hated.” Liar. He swallowed and went on with difficulty. “It was Chappell and his whole operation. If it weren’t for them, humans and shifters wouldn’t be suffering the terrible things being done to them. It’s Chappell’s doing, and his minions’, and they’re the ones who deserve to pay. I’ll live for the day that happens.” Okay, that last part was true, but his heart still held a load of pain and inner conflict with regard to the choice Jax had made. Regardless of how much he’d deserved it.
She studied him a long moment before replying. “All right. You’re saying the right things, but I’ll want to schedule a couple more visits in my office before I release you as fit to work.” She held up a hand to stave off his protest. “I have to make certain your head is together before you get back in the field. An operative harboring suppressed rage makes mistakes, and mistakes get innocents killed. You’re too good a Pack member not to understand that.”
“Fine.” He sighed. “But I don’t have to be thrilled about it.”
This earned him a full-fledged smile. “No, you don’t. Rest and I’ll check on you later.”
Persistent woman. Aric contemplated Mac long after she left, mostly because he had nothing else to do. She was lovely and wonderful, and a genuinely nice person. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing she “did it” for him. He was damned sick of being alone. But even if there’d been an attraction on his part, it might’ve been too late.
Mac was wearing Kalen’s pentagram. Interesting. Maybe he’d ask her about that later.
Aric began to fidget, plucking at the sheets and picking at the bothersome tape holding his IV in place. He really needed to talk to Nick about getting televisions installed in the infirmary rooms. Even the crappiest of hospitals had TVs, for God’s sake.
He’d just decided to close his eyes and try to take a nap when the door opened again. At first he couldn’t place the woman who walked in and couldn’t imagine why a stranger would be at the compound, much less visiting him. She was tall, probably only three or four inches shorter than h
is six-foot, two-inch height. She wore her shoulder-length sable hair pulled back into a ponytail, and her angular face was fresh-scrubbed, very attractive though she wore no makeup.
As she turned to close the door, he couldn’t help but notice that her jeans fit her long thighs and rounded rear end like a glove. Not too tight but emphasizing the junk in the trunk that made his mouth water. Manna from heaven to an unrepentant ass man like himself.
Turning to face him, she approached his bedside, curiosity—and maybe fatigue—in big, chocolate brown eyes that were shadowed underneath as though she’d had little sleep. Tired or not, she carried herself with her spine straight, shoulders back and head up. Totally in control of herself and any situation she encountered, assessing him openly.
“I saw you last night,” he realized out loud. “In the lab, when my team came.”
She held out a hand. “I’m Rowan Chase, Micah’s older sister.”
“Aric Savage.” Automatically he started to raise his right arm, but the tug on his hand reminded him of the IV, so he gave her his left one instead.
The instant their fingers curled around each other’s, a jolt shot down his arm and through his chest at the contact. What the hell? His visitor looked as surprised as he did by the zing of electricity, quickly snatching her hand back and wiping the palm on her jeans as if he had a contagious disease. Inside, his wolf paced restlessly, distressed at the broken contact. Aric covered his confusion with the obvious question.
“How’s Micah?”
A small smile tinged with sadness graced her lush mouth. “Alive, but he’s got a long road ahead for recovery. He’s—” She cleared her throat, obviously restraining her emotions. “He’s not healing all that fast, not like I’ve been told a shifter should. I don’t think he’s fighting too hard.”
That answered a couple of questions. One, she knew what they were. Which meant Nick had probably filled her in. Two, Rowan loved her brother very much.
