A dozen other prisons within the Republic fit the same description.
Brynleigh pressed herself against Ryker’s side, and she shivered.
“This is where they’re keeping him?”
Her voice was so quiet that he had to strain to hear her.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
They stared at the door for a long minute but couldn’t wait forever.
Raising his free hand, Ryker scrubbed it over his face. “Before we go in… You might not like what he has to say.”
By all accounts, Zanri had been forthcoming with his answers. That wasn’t entirely surprising. Most people talked after weeks of torture. Ryker had studied notes from the interrogations, and there was one common thread: the shifter was angry. Not that Ryker blamed him, but he didn’t want the man directing that anger towards his vampire.
Brynleigh had enough to deal with already.
“I know, but… I need to do this. I thought he was my friend.” She looked up at him, her black eyes wide and sorrowful. “Right up until those last moments, I thought… but I was wrong.”
He tightened his grip around her hand, even as his heart cracked for Brynleigh.
Ryker’s instincts had him wanting to hurt the shifter for betraying Brynleigh in such a manner. That wouldn’t help anything, though.
Instead, he reiterated his promise from earlier, knowing he would say it a thousand times over if it made her feel better.
Brynleigh drew in a deep breath, and she dipped her head.
“Alright, I’m ready.”
The captain didn’t do her the disservice of questioning whether that was true. He didn’t really think anyone could be ready for what awaited them, but his vampire was strong. If anyone could handle this, it was her. And if she couldn’t, he’d be here for her. Just like he promised.
Ryker placed his hand on the keypad. Once the light turned green, he twisted the handle.
“Let me go first,” he murmured, brushing the lightest kiss against her temple.
To her credit, Brynleigh didn’t fight him.
Ryker pulled his hand from hers, instantly missing their connection, and stepped inside the cell.
Gods, it was tiny. The space was maybe ten feet long and four feet wide. A metal cot rested against the wall. The floor and walls were made of cement. The only light came from a flickering yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling. It barely lit the cell, casting it in shades of grey despair.
And the smell. The air was thick with sweat, blood, and sickness.
A ghost was huddled on the cot, the shifter was barely recognizable as the man who’d attacked Ryker a month ago.
Brynleigh whimpered as she entered.
“Isvana have mercy on us all,” she breathed.
Ryker knew the prisoner was in bad shape, but this was worse than he’d expected.
Red hair coated in blood and grime hung limply around the shifter’s face. Black and blue bruises covered his visible skin. Dried blood crusted his lip. Several deep cuts were scattered over his body. They weren’t healing.
Zanri cradled his right arm to his chest, the bone jutting out oddly from the socket. Thick prohiberis manacles were attached to the shifter’s feet, connected to a chain locking him to the bed. He had just enough leeway to get to the small toilet and sink in the corner, but that was it.
The shifter’s name left Brynleigh’s lips on a whisper, but the man didn’t show any sign he’d heard it.