by Rebecca Main
A noise sounds from afar. The weighty impression of a door closing, perhaps? I stir backward towards the cot I woke up on, and sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the hammering of my heart to listen for the sound of footfalls. After a minute of nothing, I flop backward in defeat.
“Damn,” I whisper to nobody.
And then the door at the far end of the room slams open.
“Good morning, Quinn!” Ryatt announces. I jolt upwards. He looks obnoxiously happy. Fresh clothes and a bright smile on his face. He holds a tray in his hand filled with food and drinks. My heart and stomach lurch at the pleasant sight. “I come bearing gifts.” Gifts indeed. No doubt he meant to lure me into some sense of security with his peace offering. I needed to play this smart, which meant I needed to bring out Jessie “Smooth as Ice” Williams. Playing her part had gotten me out of a number of scrapes.
“Is one of them the key to this cell?”
“It could be,” he says, coming to stand in front of the cell. “If you play your cards right. Breakfast?”
“What time is it?” The words come out with more bite than I intend as I watch him set the tray down on some small metal table against the wall. I rake my eyes over him. His clothes look tailored and pressed. His face clean shaven. A familiar burst of heat spreads from my neck to my cheeks and chest.
“Just before seven, darling.” I grit my teeth as he catches me staring, a knowing look in his eyes. “Tea?”
“I’m more of a coffee kind of girl.”
He feigns a contrite look. “I’m afraid tea’s all we’ve got at the moment. You’ll have to make do.” He takes the mug from the tray and walks up to the cell, holding it carefully outside the bars. Jerk.
I stand slowly, smoothing back the hair that has come loose from my braid. He looks so pleased with himself it makes me want to vomit. I reach the bars and wait expectantly for him to pass the mug. He raises an eyebrow and pulls it back ever so slightly. Men and their power plays.
“Are you going to give me the tea, or not?” I snap.
“You just have to reach out and take it yourself, darling.” I do so with an annoyed huff, ignoring the shit-eating grin on his face.
“I’d prefer if you called me by my name. You know, the one you spent so much time looking for?” I blow at the steam rising from the mug, dipping a finger in quickly to test the temperature. It was much too hot to drink.
“Oh, I didn’t have to look very hard to find your name. Your history. Your life story, which I must say, was quite fascinating. Tell me, Quinn, shouldn’t that information be a little bit harder to find in your line of business?”
Mother fucker.
“Are you calling me a bad name in your head?” he croons, taking a step forward and leaning casually against the cell bars. The shit-eating grin turns into a shit-eating smile. “Is it very naughty?”
I take a breath. Blow it out over the tea and take a scalding sip. “Is this some kind of weird sex dungeon?”
Ryatt bursts out in laughter, taking a long moment to find his composure before repositioning himself against the bars. He leans both hands above his head and the gray polo he wears rides up to show a glimpse of tanned, taut skin. “It could be,” he purrs, noticing my wandering eyes.
“Is this how you usually sweep your conquests off their feet? Kidnapping?”
He runs his tongue along his teeth. The smile on his face positively indecent. “I assure you, I’ve never come to such drastic measures.” He places a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“Yet, here I am.”
“Croissant?” He offers casually, sweeping out an arm back to the tray. “You must be starving.” I take another drag from the mug.
“I’m more of a waffle girl,” I tell him with a short shrug. His eyes gleam at the information, but he fetches the croissant regardless. I stave off the frown that begs to fall on my brow. Why I decided to share that personal piece of information was beyond me. Maybe I was concussed? I had to be if I found myself being somewhat reluctantly impressed with Ryatt's rather successful scheme to get me here.
“Myself, as well,” he confesses, passing me the croissant through the bars. The buttery pastry is warm in my hand. I take a tentative bite. “Good?”
I nod and lick the flakes of pastry off my lips. Keep my eyes at half-mast as I watch him, watching me. “Yes,” I tell him softly, and wash down my bite with the tea. M was right; men were so easy. So predictable.
His eyes narrow. For a moment, I dare think I see some semblance of gold hint around the irises. My heart gives a little shudder as memories from last night crop up. I try to busy my mind with the food and drink I’ve been gifted, but the more I try, the more I see blazing gold eyes and the flash of sharpened canines. What exactly had I seen last night? I pass a coy look to Ryatt as I finish off the croissant. There was no need to alert him of my growing uncertainty.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs, “though I have a right mind to punish you in some manner after everything that’s happened this past week. Drugging me. Stealing from me. Running from me when I explicitly asked you not to.” He ticks my grievances off on his fingers, eyes alight with something close to delight as he watches for my reaction. “Tell me, are you fond of spanking? When done right it can be both a punishment and a reward.”
I almost spit out my tea at his innocent tone. Instead, the tea makes itself halfway down my throat and up my nose. He laughs outright at my coughing fit. A fact I will not easily forget. It takes a minute for the coughing to subside, but the uncomfortable tightening in my throat and wetness up my nose will take longer.
“Seriously?” I bite out.
He places a hand over his heart. Rolls his shoulders back to stand just that bit straighter. “Of course, darling. Tell me. Spanking: yes or no?”
The glare I bestow would melt glaciers. Start forest fires. I rise from the bed and take a menacing step forward, lips pulling back in a snarl to reply. “Yes.”
Ryatt rewards me with a gigantic smile. I gasp in horror and place a hand across my traitorous lips.
“I mean—yes!” I shout, followed by a short shriek. My hand goes back over my mouth. What the hell was going on? The persona of Jessie quickly drops, leaving just plain old Quinn in her wake. God help me.
“Excellent.” His smile digs deeply into his cheeks to stop from laughing outright once more. Bastard.
“I didn’—” I cringe as my throat contracts, and my tongue becomes laden. “I didn’—ugh! Why can’t I talk? Why can’t I say what I want to say?”
“Remember, Quinn. Honesty is always the best policy.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I try to rein in my temper, I really do, but I can actually feel the heat radiating off my cheeks and neck. It certainly doesn’t help that he looks so damn pleased with himself. He bites his tongue, blue eyes sparkling mischievously before darting to the floor then back at me.
“It means you shouldn’t lie. Or attempt to for that matter.” I take a steadying breath and squeeze the mug in my grasp. I shouldn't attempt to lie, what could that possibly—oh. My eyes focus on my half-finished tea. Whatever it had been laced with was obviously fast working.
“You drugged me?” I ask incredulously. So much for reining in my temper.
“Fair’s fair, darling. A little Lunaria tea to keep you honest.” I hurtle the mug across the cell, but Ryatt is quick enough to move out of the splash-and-crash radius. He eyes the mess I’ve made with a wry grin before returning to his spot.
“You are unbelievable,” I seethe.
“That's what most women say after we’ve—”
“Don’t!” I shout. “Do not finish that sentence.”
Ryatt licks his lips but nods in agreement. “Right then, on to more mannered subjects. About last night…”
“You mean the part where you chased me down and then kidnapped me?”
“No, neither of those.”
“You mean the part where your eyes
went all glowy, and your teeth got all pointy?” The question tumbles from my lips before I can stop them, and we both freeze. Fuck. I did not mean to say that. How long was this drug going to be in my system? This honesty crap was getting old, fast.
“You remember that, do you?” he asks soberly. The cool undertones of a threat permeate his voice. “Anything else?”
I take a moment to ponder my word choice, smiling sweetly once I finally answer. “Those are the most prevalent.” His jaw ticks as he puts on a strained smile.
“Where is the crystal, Quinn?”
“Not on me,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest as I cock a hip to the side.
“If it’s not on you,” he responds, “then where is it?”
My throat contracts, the truthful answer pushing up and past my lips uncomfortably. “With my boss.”
“And who would that be?”
My chest pulses with anxiety. “A man.” Ryatt huffs.
“A man whose name is…”
I do my best to hold back the words, to fight the discomfort that slowly turns into pain. Yet the pressure that builds stunts my breathing, and so, in a rasping gasp I respond, “Mr. Vrana.” My eyes shut in defeat and I allow my arms to pull around my chest a bit more tightly.
“Mr. Vrana?” Ryatt seems to be speaking more to himself than me, so I turn my back to him and take several deep breaths. I had just signed away my life. If Ryatt didn’t finish me off down here, then Mr. Vrana most certainly would. He would find me, torture me, and—“You’re certain it was a Mr. Vrana who solicited your services? Tall, Slavic features, a bit on the pale side?”
I clench my teeth and nod my head. “Yes,” I hiss, turning back around to face him. Ryatt takes a step back and begins to pace; a studious frown planted firmly on his face.
“Do you know what that crystal is?”
I shrug, “I don’t know. Just another priceless crystal to add to someone's collection.” Ryatt stops and fixes me with a scowl.
“You’ve gone and got yourself mixed up in something far greater than you could have imagined, little girl.”
“I’d hardly call myself a little girl. Or is that just the type you like sucking you off?” Ryatt snarls at me, that same flash of gold striking like lightning across his eyes. “What are you?”
He quells his temper quickly, cutting off his sound of displeasure and replacing it with a magnificent glare. “Behave, Quinn. Or you won’t be leaving this cell anytime soon.” I hold back my retort, waiting for the pounding of my heart to simmer. Though his unworldly anger was evident, I wasn’t frightened. Not exactly, anyway. Ryatt was a different kind of danger. Volatile when provoked, but also a man who took great measure in calculating each move he made. My pulse thrummed oddly with anticipation at the game I had fallen into.
“What are you?” I ask again.
“A lycan.”
His answer gives me pause. I shuffle my weight from one foot to the other. “You mean, like, a werewolf?”
“Not even close, darling,” he purrs, leaning up against the bars. A dark look clouds his face. “You think of a werewolf,” he spits the word out with disdain, “and you image some terrifying creature, part-man part-beast, reared up upon hind legs to chase you through the woods at night. One bite, they tell you, is all it takes to share its fate. To transform into this monster every full moon. To lose control and find yourself reverted to your baser animal instincts.” He gives pause to let his barbarous words sink in. “When I chase something or someone down…I’m very much conscious of my actions.”
“You can’t honestly expect me to believe this.” A tingling sensation erupts across the back of my neck at his story. “Prove it,” I demand before he can start up again. “If you’re a werewolf, or a lycan, or whatever you want to call yourself, do it. Change. Right now.” I issue the challenge in a strong voice, pushing past my trepidation.
Ryatt scowls. “I can’t,” he bites out roughly.
“Well, if you can’t show me—”
“Surely I’ve already shown you enough,” he says. “You said it yourself. My eyes and my teeth changed before your very eyes last night. Didn’t they?”
The strange pull to tell the truth persists, but not nearly as strongly as five minutes ago. I keep my lips sealed, despite the discomfort.
“Lycans, dearest Quinn, are born. We are the children of the moon, blessed to share our nature with that of the wolf who resides inside us. There was a time when we could transform freely into our wolf forms. When we could always run together, be it on two feet or four, but then Merida came alone. Merida was a very powerful witch several centuries ago. Scorned by the lycan she loved, she cursed the entirety of the lycan clan. Her intent was to bind our wolf halves so that they might never know freedom, but the power of the moon was too strong. As such, for centuries lycans have only been able to shift into our wolf forms when the moon is full, and we are at our most powerful.”
“Right,” I drawl. “So, you can only turn into a wolf on a full moon. Sounds a lot like a werewolf to me.”
“There’s a cure out there. A potion to release us from the curse.”
“Mmhm.”
Ryatt’s annoyance grows. “One day the cure will be found, and we will roam this earth as we were intended to—”
“—Like dogs,” I chime sarcastically. Ryatt growls. Point to me.
“As wolves. As protectors of the night.”
I scoff, “Protectors of the night? Against what? Vampires? Ghosts?” I let out an incredulous laugh.
“Against your Mr. Vrana,” he tells me, voice going deadly calm.
The laugh dies in my throat. “Excuse me?”
“Has he ever touched you?”
“Excuse you,” I all but snarl.
“He’s quite cool to the touch, is he not?” My retort is ready on the tip of my tongue when I give his words the chance to sink in. My mind flicks back to our few brief face-to-face meetings. Aside from the odd handshake or kiss on the back of my hand, we did not touch. And yet he had been somewhat startlingly cold each time. Though it had seemed a bit warmer in recent encounters.
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that generally speaking when one does not have a beating heart to circulate blood properly through the body, the body becomes cold.”
“Some people just run cold,” I tell him rationally.
“Or they’re a vampire.”
We stare each other down. “Listen, Kyle—”
“Ryatt,” he snaps. Point to me. Again.
I smile demurely. “Right, Ryatt. I don’t know who it is you're trying to convince here, but I’m not buying the whole supernatural werewolf theory.”
“Lycan,” he gripes, head falling forward to bang against the bars. “What about Mexico?” A flush skirts up my cheeks.
“What about it?”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t feel…” his head shoots upward, eyes wide as he stares at me with newfound chagrin. “Never mind,” he mumbles, looking away and beginning his pacing once more.
“It was just a job,” I remind him. “It wasn’t anything more than that, alright?” A sting of displeasure wraps around my body as I force the words from my lips, caught in a half truth, half lie. We treat ourselves to another stilted silence, letting the tension grow thickly between us.