by Laura Taylor
“Hang on tight, sweetheart,” Baron muttered to Skip, as the doctor began injecting the anaesthetic into her vein. “It’ll all be over soon.”
An hour and a half later, Baron was pacing the room. The vet had done a marvellous job so far, giving clear instructions to Silas while he prepped the wound sight, controlling the bleeding rapidly and closing off each blood vessel with neat, precise stitches.
Silas had been monitoring the anaesthetic, Skip’s blood pressure, reflexes and breathing, and there’d been a few minutes of tense alarm when her blood pressure had dropped dramatically low. As predicted, she’d lost a lot of blood during the process of closing the leg wound, and Jamal had left off the surgery for a moment, giving curt instructions to Baron about increasing the rate of her IV fluids, administering various medications to try and stabilise her. It had worked, to a degree, but Jamal remained anxious about her vitals, asking Silas for updates every few minutes in case she took a turn for the worse.
A few minutes ago, Baron had helped him move Skip onto her back, ready for the next part of the surgery, and he’d watched with apprehension as Jamal had cut a long, straight line along her middle, opening up her abdomen in order to remove the bullet.
Jamal was wrist deep in her innards now, portions of her guts hanging out, and Baron fought back the urge to vomit. For all his hefty experience in treating wounds, he’d never had to stand there and look at the intestines of one of his Den mates before, and the view was more than a little confronting. How the hell vets and doctors did this on a daily basis, he would never understand.
He was about to ask Jamal if it was okay if he stepped outside for a short breather when the vet suddenly swore, his hands a flurry of motion as he grabbed surgical instruments and swabs and pulled a large section of Skip’s bowel out of her body.
“What’s up?” Silas asked, sounding far calmer than Baron was feeling.
“The bullet perforated her gut,” the vet said grimly. “There’s been some leakage into her abdomen. I’m going to need to lavage the abdomen and put her on some strong antibiotics, or she’s likely to end up with a serious infection.”
Baron gritted his teeth and sent a fervent prayer skyward to Sirius. Save her life, he asked of the divine wolf god. This is your daughter. Your creation. Don’t take her from us now…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Miller sat on the narrow cot in his cage in the shifters’ dungeon, watching the guard who was watching him back. There were two guards, actually, the second being a dark skinned woman with a predatory stare, but the one who held his attention was the man.
It was the shifter they’d captured back before the lab explosion at the beginning of the year. The one he’d seen in Scotland, playing with the young woman he now knew to be Skip.
The one who had promised to kill him one day.
In all honesty, he was feeling a little confused about his captivity. After being bundled into the cage, he’d expected to be interrogated, asked for more details on the men who had helped him capture Skip, his job, the Noturatii’s operations, the other staff members he worked with.
Instead, they’d brought him lunch. Then a change of clothes and a towel so he could have a shower, and then a small medical kit so he could clean the wound on his head.
After that, he’d expected the leader of the pack to come down and start the interrogation routine, or perhaps the warrior woman he’d seen back in Scotland, the one who habitually wore black leather. But neither had appeared, Miller being left alone, aside from the two guards, until dinner had arrived. He wondered if the delay in the leader coming to see him was a simple psychological tactic. If so, he was prepared to wait. The longer they took to interrogate him, after all, the longer he got to keep breathing.
But despite looking after him physically, the guard had made no secret of his loathing for Miller, glaring at him like he’d be more than willing to gut him while Miller screamed. It was an obvious intimidation tactic, but being as well versed in the various methods of dealing with prisoners as he was, Miller had succeeded in ignoring him for most of the afternoon.
Now, it was coming up to 1am, but despite the dramas of the day, Miller wasn’t feeling inclined to sleep. There were too many unanswered questions plaguing his thoughts.
Arriving at this estate had been startling in and of itself. He’d been right here, earlier in the summer, during his quest to locate the second shifter pack. He’d talked to that ‘caretaker’ and fallen for the disguise, hook, line and sinker, dismissing this estate from the list of those that could potentially be connected to the shifters. But despite his embarrassment at being fooled, it was something of a relief that he had been. Otherwise all of these people, along with himself, would be in a whole lot more trouble than they were already in.
And then there was the realisation that the entire group of them were living together in one place, under one roof. They’d been here for years, decades, and yet even now, the Noturatii were none the wiser. Hiding in plain sight, as it were, and they were far, far better at it than he would ever have believed, given the Noturatii’s insistence that the shifters were little better than dumb animals. How many of them were here? How did they keep the peace, with so many people living in the same building? What sort of facilities did they have, to keep all of their members trained in combat so well?
The questions were endless, and many of them would likely never get answered… but as he sat there, he glanced at the guard, wondering if he could answer at least one of the swirling concerns in his mind.
“How’s Skip?” he asked, breaking the tense silence.
“None of your business,” the guard replied shortly.
“She was shot, just after the car crash,” Miller persisted. After his efforts to help the girl, it would be nice to know whether she was going to suffer serious complications from the wound. He couldn’t quite bring himself to entertain the idea that she might die from it. It had been bad, certainly, but he was sure that the shifters would make every effort to look after her.
The guard paced over to the front of his cage. “Mind your own damn business,” he said harshly, and Miller fought back a sigh of frustration.
“What’s your name?” he asked next, changing tactics.
“You just don’t quit, do you?” the guard snapped at him. “Sit down, and shut up.”
“Look, I know you hate me. And with good reason. But I’m serious about leaving the Noturatii. And I’d like to help you, if I can. You don’t deserve the shit they’ve been doing to you.” It was an attempt to appease the guard, to open a more meaningful conversation, though there was a good chance he was wasting his time. “I know it doesn’t make up for much, but I owe you an apology.”
“You owe me a hell of a lot more than that,” the guard said darkly. “But don’t worry. I have every intention of collecting.”
“I just want to know if Skip’s okay. She was bleeding pretty badly-”
“What I want to know,” the guard snapped, standing less than an inch from the bars, “is what the hell kind of fucked up arsehole thinks that what your mob of bastards was doing could ever have been right? You kidnapped innocent women. Tortured them. Killed them. You wanted to kill shifters, yeah, I kind of get that. But random bystanders who had never done you any harm? There was never a point when you looked at that and thought ‘hey, maybe this isn’t such a great idea, after all’?”
The guard had a point, and Miller felt a fresh wave of guilt that he hadn’t realised the error of his ways sooner. But in the next instant, a strange instinct rose up inside him, an irrepressible urge to answer the challenge the man was presenting him with, the urge to protect, to fight, to defend, and he found himself on his feet a moment later, facing the man through the bars. “So you’ve never made a mistake? Killed an innocent bystander? Pulled the trigger a little too soon when you should have been finding out what the real situation was? I’m not perfect. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, and I regret a lot of them, but don’t get on yo
ur high horse and pretend you’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
“We’ve never tortured anyone,” the guard growled, and Miller felt the oddest sensation along the back of his neck, like a crackle of static electricity, his hairs standing on end.
“Oh, so it’s fine to kill people, so long as you don’t let them suffer in the process? That mentality is just as screwed up as the Noturatii’s.” Where the hell was this aggression coming from? Until now, his philosophy had been simple. Sit down, shut up, and don’t do anything to antagonise the people who were no doubt more than willing to put him in an early grave.
The guard moved then, and in a flash, he had unlocked the cage door, flung it open, grabbed Miller by the collar and hauled him up against the wall. And despite his own size and weight, Miller was rather astonished by the strength of the man. “Much more of your backchat, and you’re going to find out just how angry I can get,” he promised grimly.
“Tank!” the other guard yelled in alarm, drawing her gun and dashing forward. “What the fuck are you doing? Baron told us not to kill him!”
So his name was Tank, Miller thought as he wondered what was going to happen next. There was an odd satisfaction in finally knowing the man’s name. And it couldn’t have suited him more.
With a predatory leer, Tank stepped back, set Miller back on his feet, and slowly drew his gun. Miller braced himself, hoping his death would be fast and painless… but instead, Tank handed his gun to the woman.
“Hold this,” he said, then grabbed Miller again and hauled him out of the cage. “I promised you a fair fight one day,” he bit out, stepping back and falling into a fighting stance. “Just you and me, no wolves, no guns… and I’m about ready to deliver on that promise.”
“I don’t want to fight you,” Miller said, automatically bringing his fists up to defend himself.
“Then stand there like the wet cunt you are, and let me kill you.”
Raniesha gasped in horror as the two men threw themselves at each other. This was supposed to be simple guard duty, keep an eye on the prisoner until Baron and Caroline got back from dealing with Skip, and then their alphas could sort out the mess. She glanced down at the gun in her hand, then pointed it almost desperately at the two brawling men. “Stand down!” she ordered sharply. “Pull your head out of your fucking arse and put him back in his cage!”
Both men ignored her, and Raniesha frantically tried to think what she should do next. Actually shooting either of them was out of the question – Tank was their 2IC, and the ranking wolf on the estate while Baron was away, and Miller was a hostage who could have vital information to help them fight the Noturatii.
Swearing to herself, she pulled out her phone and dialled John’s number. There was no way she could take Tank on by herself, as he was not only bigger than her, but a far more experienced fighter, and John was the only person currently on the estate who had the skills to separate the two men without getting badly hurt in the process. “Get down to the cages,” she snapped, when he answered the phone. “Tank and Miller are fighting!”
The phone went dead, and moments later, heavy footsteps came thudding down the stairs. John threw the door open and took one look at the two men – Tank currently had Miller in a headlock and was trying to choke him, while Miller had sunk his teeth into Tank’s arm and was clawing at his face, trying to go for his eyes – and John promptly burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny!” Raniesha snapped. “Help me get them apart!”
But John kept laughing, then had the audacity to lean nonchalantly against the door frame. “Oh, thank you for letting me see this,” he said to no one in particular. “I only wish I’d had time to make popcorn.”
Miller had succeeded in extracting himself from Tank’s grip now, and they were facing off like a pair of boxers… until Miller kicked Tank in the groin, and slammed his fist into his face in the moment of distraction that followed. Tank’s response was to body-slam his opponent into the wall, Miller cracking his head on the concrete with a loud thud.
“Fuck you,” Raniesha said to John, then dialled Simon instead. Where the hell were Andre or Silas when she needed them?
Less than a minute later, there were more footsteps on the stairs, and she breathed a sigh of relief as not just Simon, but Alistair and Mark both came charging into the room.
“Tank!” Simon barked. “You let him go right now!” Tank had Miller pinned up against the wall, his forearm slowly crushing his throat and Miller’s face was turning red, then purple as he tried to breathe.
When his shouts got no response, Simon stalked over to Raniesha and took the gun out of her hand. “You can’t shoot him!” she said, sounding uncertain. But how the hell else were they going to get the two men apart?
But Simon was nothing if not a strategic thinker, and rather than aiming the gun at Tank’s head or chest, he instead pointed it at his leg. “So help me God, I will shoot you in the leg if you don’t let him go.”
The cold steel in Simon’s voice broke through Tank’s rage, and he seemed to realise that Simon was absolutely serious in his threat. He eased the pressure off Miller’s neck, then stepped back, letting the other man slide to the floor as he gasped for breath.
“No problem,” he said darkly. “I think I’ve made my point.”
“Get back in the cage,” Simon said next, turning the gun on Miller, and Miller nodded, then dragged himself upright and staggered back inside the cage, Simon slamming the door shut behind him.
An awkward silence settled on the group.
“Mind if I have my gun back now?” Tank asked smoothly.
“Are you done being a fucking idiot?” Simon asked, not at all intimidated by the larger man.
“Like I said. I’ve made my point.”
Simon rolled his eyes, but handed the gun back anyway. Alistair and Mark were still hovering in the background, while John looked almost disappointed that the show had ended so soon.
“Want me to take over guard duty for a while?” Simon offered, which made Tank chuckle.
“I think I can handle it.” Simon lingered a moment longer, then turned and headed out the door, the rest of them following behind. Watching from the side of the room, Raniesha wasn’t entirely happy with the arrangement, not convinced that Tank wouldn’t try some other reckless stunt the next time his anger got the better of him, but since he was the ranking wolf, there was little she could do about it for the moment. “If you’ve got any sense,” she snapped at Miller, “then you’ll keep your thoughts to yourself for the rest of the night. Got it?”
“Got it,” Miller agreed, hunched awkwardly on his bed as he caught his breath. “No problem.”
It was approaching three o’clock in the morning when the surgery was finally over. Skip was recovering from the anaesthetic, laid out on a pad of towels on the floor, whimpering and shivering as she slowly came to, with Heron and Silas sitting protectively beside her.
Jamal had performed as well as anyone could have expected, removing the bullet, closing off the hole in her intestines and cleaning out her abdomen as thoroughly as he was able, though he still had grave concerns about her recovery.
“She’ll need to stay at the clinic for a few days,” he said to Baron, once he’d cleaned up the bulk of the surgical equipment. “There’s a strong likelihood she’ll develop an infection. I’ve given her some IV antibiotics, but I’d like to monitor her for a few days-”
“It’s not going to happen,” Baron said firmly, respecting the doctor’s opinion, but unable to consent to his request. “We’ll be taking her with us tonight, as soon as she’s awake enough to travel.”
Jamal frowned at that, glancing over to where Skip lay on the floor, then over to Andre, and back to Baron. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” he said, as politely as possible. “It puts her life at risk, and if she’s as valuable as you say she is, then-”
“Step into the waiting room with me,” Baron instructed, then headed out the door
without waiting for a reply.
Jamal followed him, unhappy with the way the conversation was going, and from the look on his face, ready to make an issue of it.
“I understand the risks to her health,” Baron said, once they were alone. “But in this case, there are extenuating circumstances that mean it’s impossible for us to leave her here. What I said about her being valuable is true. But our work tends to attract the attention of some extremely nasty people, and there are those who would kill – literally – to get their hands on one of our dogs. So it’s not safe for her to stay here, either for her, or for you.”
Jamal considered that idea carefully. “You’re saying it’s possible that if anyone found out about this, they could take exception to me helping you out?”
“It’s unlikely anyone will find out, but it’s a possibility, yes. So I would recommend not keeping any records of what went on here tonight. But if you really have to, then make up a name, both for me and the dog, say that the surgery was what I said the first time – a dog hit by a car – and then do your best to pretend you never saw us.”
“Not exactly the result I had in mind when I was called in for a dog in a car accident,” Jamal said wryly, then he sighed. “Fine. I guess you’re taking her with you, then. What sort of medical equipment do you have back at your base?”
“Plenty. And we have some trained medical staff. They’re just not qualified to do the kind of surgery you did here tonight.”
“Then I would strongly recommend monitoring her closely for the next few days, including keeping track of her blood pressure and temperature. I’ll give you some antibiotic tablets to take with you, but if her temperature spikes, for God’s sake, bring her back. Do you have some IV fluids?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave the cannula in. Give her another bag over the next twenty-four hours. Or better yet, a blood transfusion, if you have another dog who can act as a donor, and have the facilities for that sort of thing. Her blood pressure’s still low, and that’s not going to help her fight off an infection.”