Quinton, he thought desperately.He should know something’s wrong.
But his awareness of the world around him slipped away before he could focus enough to send a distress signal through their connection.
CHAPTER 7
CONALL WOKE TO THEtaste of metal and regret.
His mouth felt stuffed with cotton, his head pounding with the aftermath of whatever cocktail they’d hit him with.
Different from the Chimera tranks though.This one left a harsh aftertaste and a persistent ringing in his ears—like someone had taken a bell tower and stuffed it inside his skull.
Blinking as if he could will away his drug hangover, he glanced around.
Concrete walls pressed in on him.No windows.A single bare bulb cast harsh shadows across what was clearly a holding cell.
The air smelled of dust and old fear.
How many others had been kept here?The thought sent ice racing through his veins.
And there, slumped against the opposite wall, was Nadine.
Even unconscious, even with her hair disheveled and dirt streaking her face, she was breathtaking.His wolf practically purred beneath his skin, recognizing home in her presence.
Inappropriate timing, asshole, he told his inner animal.
But god, she was beautiful.
The harsh light caught the silver scar below her collarbone.Her lips were slightly parted in unconsciousness, and he found himself remembering the rasp of her voice when she’d breathed his name.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She thought he was a murderer, had accused him and Quinton of killing her father.And here he was, cataloging the elegant line of her throat like some lovesick teenager.
Their still-developing mate bond didn’t care about logic.It pulsed through him, warm and insistent, whispering things he didn’t want to hear.
Protect.Claim.
Keep safe.
Her eyes fluttered open as he watched, focusing on him with startling clarity for someone who should still be drugged senseless.
Where are we?she asked, voice rough but alert.
Too alert.
Don’t know.Conall tested his limbs one by one.Everything worked, though there was a persistent ache in his shoulder where the dart had hit.How long were we out?
Hard to say.A few hours, maybe?She sat up slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at something.That slight favor in her left leg he’d noticed before—a silver wound from the bullet he suspected she’d taken, maybe.
His protective instincts flared again, making his hands clench into fists.
He wanted to ask if she was okay.Wanted to check her injuries, offer comfort.The impulse was so strong it physically hurt to suppress it.
Instead, he said,You’re handling the aftereffects better than I would have expected.
Hm.She tested her own limbs.
Thanks for the counteragent,he added.Again.
