by Gaja J. Kos
“But because of it, she forgot about mine.” I shook my head, then let out a suffering groan. “Albtraum was hit two nights in a row, not just one.”
“Yes.”
Morozov’s gaze locked on mine. The green filaments of his otherwise brown eyes gleamed under the floodlights that illuminated our section of the parking lot, exposing the anger he barely kept leashed.
“Greta suspected someone went missing from Vollmond yesterday.” He killed the engine. “Neither the police nor ICRA received any missing person’s report, but the date and the location fit her pattern. I let her go, thinking she was going to do recon, nothing more. But then I studied her plans…”
“Motherfucker.” The word came out of me as a harsh breath. “Vollmond was their hunting ground for more than one night.”
The look he gave me before he got out of the car made any further explanation redundant. It was all there, confirming the truth I had no choice but to accept.
The bastards had gotten to Greta because of a fucking miscalculation.
Stifling the tremors, I climbed out after him and walked the short distance to the crude ICRA building. Crude, but no less protected. Morozov keyed us in, and after a few more security checks that involved not only metal, but magic detectors, too, I was sitting in his office on the fourth—and topmost—floor.
The space was basic, functional, with no excess luxury or need to keep up appearances. Efficient, that’s what it was—and it was the same feeling I was getting from the man himself.
That, if anything, gave me hope that he would find Greta in time.
I stayed silent as he eased his muscular frame into the chair opposite me and checked in with his team. Throughout the conversation, Morozov’s face and voice remained impassive, a rock no force could hope to break. But when he looked at me, there was something there—something beside the guilt of letting an agent walk right into the arms of danger.
The gruff werewolf cared for my sister.
“My agents found traces of a tranquilizer on the scene,” he said after he placed his phone on the utilitarian desk. “Indications of a struggle, too. From what they could tell on such short notice, the MO is the same. Attack and drug the victim during the fight, then use a vehicle to get to their base, wherever the fuck that is.”
My stomach sank, but I didn’t let the sensation overpower me. “You still have Greta’s list, right? You’ll be able to catch them on their next stop?”
“That would be the general course of action, yes. But if they find out Greta’s ICRA, if they suspect she was there to hunt them down, they might deviate from their plans.” He leaned back, his powerful body shuddering as he exhaled. “Unlike Vogt, I want to cover all possible venues, but the agents you saw out there on the scene, they’re it. We’re the brute strength, the lethal force behind ICRA, not some blend-in types for undercover work. No one in their right mind would try to snatch one of my people. But Greta…”
“She doesn’t show how powerful she is on the outside,” I finished for him. “She’s female, after all, and good looks tend to blind the outside observer.”
Morozov nodded, then ran a hand across his short-cropped hair, his broad, rough face caught in the spill of shadow and light that reigned in the room. The aura of his emotions pulsed through the air, crashing together and rising to dangerous levels. Even breathing became hard as my own body reacted to the turmoil raging inside him.
My inner wolf became restless, an involuntary shift a possibility I could taste on my tongue. But just as I wanted to sound a warning growl, the storm stopped as abruptly as if someone had pulled the metaphysical plug.
Morozov’s gaze once more locked on mine. “Even if we locate the proper bar, my agents can’t risk being seen.” He exhaled, and the sudden absence of any emotion made my hackles rise. “They can’t pretend to be one of the crowd.”
I didn’t think it was possible to grow stiller than I already was, but my muscles proved me wrong.
“What?”
“I won’t force you to do anything, Lotte. But I will ask you this…” His gaze dug into mine. “How far are you ready to go to help your sister?”
23
Despite a foreboding sense creeping up my arm and spreading through my insides, I fumbled the little gold earring between my fingers.
I’d never bothered with them before since werewolf healing meant the holes closed if you took the stud out for even as little as an hour, but this one wasn’t leaving my skin anytime soon.
After all, it was Morozov’s way of tracking my movements. His only way of tracing my whereabouts not if, but when I got snatched.
“I don’t like this.” Afanasiy’s rich, layered voice came from my side.
His statement was unnecessary given how deeply embedded the disapproval was in his scent—a sharp, powerful aroma that, despite the reason behind it, filled me with warmth. If he could, he would protect me at all costs.
And my werewolf nature was immensely pleased by his devotion.
I glanced sideways at him. With his height and well-built physique, Afanasiy took up most of the couch, yet a thin barrier remained between us, preventing contact.
As if it would be too much for him to bear.
The thought only gained weight when I saw he wasn’t even looking at me. Instead, his gaze was fixed on some point in the distance, his handsome features drawn into a hard mask.
“I don’t either,” I confessed. “But it’s the only way…”
One that, unfortunately, consisted of allowing myself to get kidnapped to lead Morozov right to the bastards responsible for it all.
Gently, I breached the wall between us and ran my fingers through his dark hair.
“I also have your mark, Afanasiy, as well as Lena’s spell.” Which was a silent presence inside me, waiting idly until I called on it for help. “I’m as protected as I can get.”
When he remained silent, I moved my hand from his hair to his thigh and squeezed. Considering how furious he’d been when I told him about the deal I’d struck with Morozov, handing myself into ICRA’s clutches once more, the touch was a weak consolation. An even weaker reassurance.
But if this was what it took to get my sister back, to get Voit back, then there was no way I was chickening out.
Even if I was as terrified as Afanasiy was concerned.
Clutching the earring in my fist, I leaned over until he couldn’t ignore me any longer. It was hard to believe that only hours earlier, I was freaking out over what our bond truly meant, the demands it made of me even now, when my soul wasn’t yet tethered to his.
But in this moment, our connection meant everything.
My lips brushed against his carved cheekbone.
The strong line of his jaw.
Afanasiy shuddered, then met my lips with his, and although the kiss was gentle, the affection behind it was smoldering.
Dizzy, I retreated, but kept my grip on his thigh. Afanasiy covered my hand with his.
“You have faith in this Morozov?” he asked.
While his voice was guarded, the tension managed to seep through. Only now its edges were softened by our proximity, physical and metaphysical alike.
“I do.”
And I did.
Whether it was the worry for his agent, or some deeper affection neither he nor Greta had admitted to one another, I’d felt Morozov’s pain as clearly as if it were my own. Just as I did his unwavering determination to pull my sister out of this mess safe and sound. I wasn’t entirely convinced of the latter, not when I’d seen Manfred’s mangled body up close, but the pulling her out part, yes.
Demyan Morozov would do anything to make it happen.
I placed the earring on the table next to my untouched Paulaner and scooted back over until I was tucked under Afanasiy’s arm. I leaned my head on his shoulder, draping my left leg across his so there wasn’t a sliver of wasted space between us. Afanasiy didn’t say anything, but I felt his desire to keep me just like this reverberate t
hrough me, every heartbreaking nuance of it.
And yet he didn’t forbid me to work for Morozov.
He didn’t try to stop me or change my mind.
All he did was hold me, echoing my wish that tonight wasn’t the last time.
Between going about my business as if everything were perfectly normal and lingering in supe bars after work as bait, the former was infinitely harder, if less of a health hazard. With two nights of no-shows—and several days of absolutely nothing in between—I was becoming antsy. Aggravated.
In light of that, focusing on paperwork or coaching while trying not to snarl at everyone was starting to drive me out of my mind.
But Morozov had expected this outcome.
Whether the kidnappers knew Greta was ICRA or they simply realized they had drawn too much attention to themselves over the past weeks, they hadn’t made an appearance in either of the bars on Greta’s list.
Patience was the key here. Unfortunately, mine was running thin.
The single thing that kept me from falling apart entirely was spending my nights in Afanasiy’s arms.
I was in no mood for sex. Neither of us was—yet another testimony to how different our relationship was in its core. With werewolves, danger and carnal pleasure usually went hand in hand. But I’d come to learn that the mere act of sleeping next to someone, curled up in their warmth, gave me something more than even the best sex could.
Still, I found myself wishing that tonight, it wouldn’t be Afanasiy I would return to.
Every day, every hour felt like another nail in my sister’s coffin. Although the idea iced my veins, I hoped the bastards were taking their time with their experiments, trying to prolong the usefulness of their test subjects. At least no new bodies had popped up yet.
I practically ran down to the garage after I was done with the day’s work and took the company car onto the streets. My stomach made embarrassing noises of hunger, dread, and excitement woven into one, so I cranked up the music until I heard nothing but the generic songs the radio station chose to play.
A car accident up ahead forced me to detour around Schlosspark Nymphenburg, but as I made my way through Pasing, then back towards Laim, the additional minutes paid off. My mind was a whole lot calmer.
Marching into Sturm on pins and needles wouldn’t have done me any good.
The traffic in Laim was a bitch since the snow that started to fall early in the morning now coated the roads and, apparently, everyone decided they had somewhere to be right now, but I managed to get to the somewhat upscale supe-only club in one piece.
Cars dominated the parking lot, a group of supes smoking in front of the gilded doors of the three-story building. The air was alive with numerous scents that overpowered the somewhat ranker tones of exhaust fumes and overworked humanity.
While Sturm wasn’t the kind of establishment to appeal to my slightly more traditional Bavarian preferences, it wasn’t a place to write off, either.
Despite its reputation and price tag, the patrons seemed rather nice. The smokers parted politely when I approached, and a vamp who looked like he belonged on a surfboard riding some Spanish waves held the door for me. If he weren’t on his way out, I’d buy him a drink just to encourage him to never let go of his good manners.
The world definitely didn’t need another Isa Vogt.
Unlike the majority, I didn’t check my coat and head to the top two floors where there was supposedly dancing to be had in abundance, but continued forward into Sturm’s open-plan restaurant area. The maître d’ led me to a table just a few steps away from the old-school mahogany bar. A great vantage point for surveillance, although in my case, unnecessary.
As far as Morozov could tell, the assailants never actually went into the establishments they targeted—something my own experience confirmed.
But that didn’t mean I could drop all pretense and just loiter out in the lot. Especially if the same charming duo were doing the snatching.
So I ordered some pancakes—that tasted like ash in my mouth despite the chocolate poured over them—and chased the food down with a glass of house wine. Followed by two more once I parked my ass behind the mahogany bar.
The alcohol had little effect thanks to my werewolf metabolism, but that, in itself, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not coming out on top of a potential struggle wasn’t the same as being completely helpless during it. I wanted to get at least a few good punches in.
Still, the wine eased some of the tension from my body, and when a vampire walked over to chat me up, I was actually able to carry a superficial conversation—with superficial being the operative word.
When the clock stretched past eleven, I said my goodbyes and marched out onto the parking lot. The snow had stopped, leaving the cars and ground blanketed with white—and out here, where the club’s lights spilled into the distance, it made for an all too bright setting. I doubted the kidnappers would risk an open attack on what was basically an illuminated stage, but didn’t veer from the plan Morozov and I had agreed on.
Tugging up the collar of my coat, I pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from my purse and lit one before walking the four rows over to the company Passat I’d bonded with since the weather made me garage my Vulcan.
Some part of me that hadn’t caught up with all the shit going on was appalled that I’d taken up cigarettes after all these years, but I sure as fuck needed something to keep myself occupied while acting as bait. Besides, smoking helped keep up appearances. Not many people lingered next to their cars in the middle of the night just for the fun of it.
Casually, I sampled the air with each inhale, my gaze scanning the lot for any unusual activity. Of course, I found none.
I groaned under my breath, then marched over to a bin set by a copse of trees. I took one last drag before crushing the cigarette on the small ashtray welded to the top of the trash can. But when the red glow flickered, then died, something sharp stabbed into my back.
I whirled around, twisting my arm behind me until my fingers closed around a lean object. An object that reminded me all too much of a dart. I pulled the damn thing out with a hiss, then swore.
It looked like I wasn’t about to get that fight I’d been spoiling for.
Because it was a dart I’d pulled out of my back. A fucking long one.
And given how the night suddenly seemed darker, the tranquilizer was already starting to take effect.
24
I woke up with a parched mouth and a brain that felt too large for my skull. Harsh artificial lights assaulted me as I forced open my eyes, the white gleam making my headache a shitload worse.
Bile rose at the back of my throat, and for a moment, I thought I was about to throw up. I tried to shift on my side in case my dinner did plan to resurface, only to find that I was unable to move.
Luckily, the realization killed the nausea. But it certainly didn’t do squat to ease my fear.
This is what you wanted, a voice sounded somewhere from beneath the pain.
I held on to it, using it like a key to unlock memories tucked away in a place just beyond my reach.
The tranquillizer. The kidnapping.
Greta.
The voice was right. I wanted this. Volunteered for it. But some foolishly naive part of me believed I would already be safe when I came to, not stuck in some—
Where was I, anyway?
Breathing deeply, I concentrated on my surroundings. My wrists and ankles were bound, as well as my midsection, judging by the pressure I felt there. But at least I could still move my head.
I craned my neck, blinking furiously until the fog cleared from my vision. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give for one of those shots the medics had given me behind Albtraum.
Eventually, my sight cleared, and the room snapped into focus.
It was small, with plain white walls and something that looked like cabinets extending just beyond my scope. I strained, but unless I was willing to break my neck, couldn’t see anything more. Figured
.
Slumping back down on the body-warmed steel, I opened my other senses. A low electrical hum stirred the air that smelled mildly of disinfectant. A lab of some sort, then, even if the bonds made it perfectly clear I was a prisoner here much like if they’d thrown me in a cell.
Briefly, doubts pooled in the pit of my already upset stomach, but I didn’t allow myself to think what my snatchers had in store for me.
Not that it mattered. I had no intention of staying in here long enough to find out.
The slab of steel beneath me didn’t move in the slightest as I tugged on my restraints. Good. Toppling over and causing a commotion was the last thing I needed right now. Still, I progressed slowly, refusing to tempt fate.
The belt around my waist wasn’t going anywhere, but the cuffs on my hands and feet were a different story.
My muscles burned as I continued to apply pressure, the leather-lined steel scraping my skin until I could smell my own blood. I welcomed the pain and kept going.
I might have failed to break out of the cuffs Officer Lahm had used on me, but back then I hadn’t been in a situation I wanted to get out of, either.
Grinding my teeth and biting back a growl, I yanked with everything I had.
And heard a distinct snap.
Blood flowed down my skin in warm rivulets, saturating the air with its coppery tang. But it was only when I moved my hands to undo the strap over my stomach that I realized why.
I hadn’t destroyed the fortified chains.
I broke the cuffs.
After a quick look to reassure myself I hadn’t cut anything vital on the jagged steel, I finally freed myself from the last restraint. My mind swam as I lifted myself up, the sudden brush of air against my utterly naked form sending goose bumps down my limbs. I risked a few precious seconds for the haze to clear, then scanned the room in earnest while my werewolf healing stitched back sinew and skin.