I’m naked. The wood of the chair is rough against my bare back. The air finds every part of me.
“What the fuck?” My wolf’s first response is a hot, rolling fury. A dominant male, stripped and put on display. Unacceptable. Itug at the restraints, muscles straining. I want to tear the chair apart.
I can’t. Whoever built this knew what they were building. So the fury sits under my skin with nowhere to go.
A low growl builds deep in my chest.
Something catches my attention, and my head shoots up.
I’m not alone.
There’s a woman in a chair across the room. She’s been watching me for a while. I can feel the weight of it, the stillness of a room where someone hasn’t moved in a long time. Waiting. She was waiting for me to wake up, and now that I have, she’s in no hurry.
Small. Dark-haired. Gray eyes that give me nothing. Practical clothes. A knife on the table beside her. Clean blade. Sharp.
My wolf stops thrashing.
It isn’t that the fury fades. Something else overrides it. The animal in me, in the middle of his rage, goes still. Lifts his attention from the ropes, from the room, from the indignity of being naked and tied, and fixes on her.
My nostrils flare.
The pull is physical. Behind my ribs. Low in my gut. Every hair on my body stands up. The beast who has obeyed me without question for most of my life is suddenly doing something I did not authorize.
Showing interest in a way that has nothing to do with my current dilemma.
For fuck’s sake, the woman looks like she wants to kill me. Why does she have to smell so good?
I crush the response. The wolf goes quiet.
He doesn’t go away. He’s taking her in. The light muscling of her tanned forearms. The smooth sweep of her forehead toward hair that’s thick enough to need taming. Her plain, black T-shirt pulls snuggly across her full chest.
“Who are you? What the fuck is going on here?” My voice comes out rough. The drug is still thick in my throat.
She watches me. Doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches. I’ve used this tactic myself — in my study, with wolves who’ve crossed a line they shouldn’t have crossed. Let the quiet build. Let them fill it.
She’s using it on me.
“What do you want?” My voice is sharper now.
Still no answer.
I test the restraints. Right wrist. Left. Ankles. Chest strap. Nothing gives.
“Goddammit,” I growl, not to her, but to the insanity of the situation.
Her eyes flick to the window, then back at me. There’s something about her that pings my radar. Wolf, I’m guessing, but that’s not surprising around here. What is surprising is that she took me out. Picked me off at the one point my guard would be down. She’s been watching me. Tracking my movements.
“You’re the one in the hills,” I say. “The one my sentry couldn’t catch.”
Her posture adjusts a fraction. She wanted me to know. That’s part of it.
I try to read her through the fog the drug left behind. My blood in the air, the residue still working through my system — the cabin is too saturated to get a clean line on her. Wolf, yes. The bloodline underneath, muddied. But she came here. Tracked me, took me, built this. And the only reason I can think of is the shitstorm around the Forrester corridor.
“Are you magic-blooded?”
She looks at me. Says nothing.