Page 41

V an woke up slowly, feeling a pounding headache, the smell of smoke lingering in his nose and his mouth was so dry it felt as if he had cotton balls instead of a tongue.

His body and mind felt as heavy as molasses, slowing down his every thought and action.

He shook his head, hoping to shake off the confusion, but winced as the pounding in his temples intensified.

Struggling to focus, he blinked his sandy eyes and tried to make out the object in front of him.

He was hunched over, leaning against a tree trunk.

His wrists were tightly bound behind his back with a plastic strap.

Seeking relief for his right shoulder, he adjusted his position to alleviate the pressure.

His movements were restricted by the plastic tie strap binding his ankles together.

At his feet, Peterson remained motionless in his wolf form. Van felt a wave of relief wash over him as he saw the gentle rise and fall of Peterson’s chest. Memories of the number of tranquilizer darts protruding from his friend were still vivid despite his current brain fog.

Van surveyed his surroundings, tilting his head back to get a better view.

In the pit, a small fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow.

Across from him, a spacious tent blended seamlessly with its surroundings.

In the dim light of the lantern, he made out the shapes of two shadows.

By the fire sat a man and a woman, both clad in camouflage, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames.

Next to each person lay an automatic weapon, ready to be accessed quickly.

He peered into the darkness, searching for any signs of more mercenaries. A figure quietly glided past the tent. He was clever enough to avoid looking directly at the dancing flames of the fire.

He shut his eyes to concentrate on the various noises that surrounded him. His head tilted to the right when a light cough followed by a loud fart made another man laugh.

“You need to put a cork in your ass, Bailey,” a woman called out of the darkness.

“I’d be happy to put one in yours, Red,” the man replied.

“In your nasty-ass dreams,” Red retorted.

There’s at least seven.

He groaned silently at the thought. These mercenaries were unique and distinctive. These were the kind that put the bad in bad-ass.

His eyes snapped open as Peterson released a soft whine and twitched, making his head fall forward.

The bastards had cruelly tied Peterson’s front and back legs together.

In addition, there was a collar with an explosive device secured around his neck.

If he tried to transform, it would go off, taking his head with it.

“Peterson, don’t shift,” he mumbled through parched lips.

Peterson’s legs twitched again and he whimpered, but he didn’t open his eyes. Van nudged his friend with his foot. Peterson’s eyelid flickered this time.

“Don’t shift. They have an explosive collar on you,” he warned.

Peterson’s head made a barely perceptible movement before his eyes drifted shut once more. The drugs would slowly make their way through his body, taking their time before finally fading away. Hell, they had shot him with enough to bring down a herd of elephants.

He breathed deeply and leaned his head back. His eyes widened with surprise when he found himself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes. He blinked twice to make sure he was not hallucinating. The barred owl that had been their traveling companion was still there.

The owl’s head turned towards the tent as tent flap opened and two men emerged from within. He drew his legs up when the man from the cave looked in his direction. Cold eyes stared back at him before he spoke in a low voice to the man next to him.

Van braced himself, the heavy silence broken only by the man’s measured footsteps, his gaze burning as he returned the man’s cold stare.

A jolt of recognition shot through him, as he recalled the exact moment he had seen the man before.

They had both been a lot younger, back when he had been na?ve and Eric Singleton had already made a name for himself as a hard-ass.

His eyes quickly scanned the faces of the other members in Singleton’s unit.

The fact that he had been right about the other members didn’t bring him any satisfaction.

These were the cream of the crop, the most skilled and dedicated soldiers, who pushed themselves to excel at the highest limits of their training.

“Timberwolf,” Eric greeted.

“Singleton,” he replied.

He noticed the subtle tightening of Eric’s lips, a telltale sign of irritation, when Van deliberately addressed him by his last name instead of his formal title.

He wasn’t worried about hurting Eric’s fragile ego; instead, he was concerned about the whereabouts of Jayden.

He glanced past Eric, his focus drawn to the canvas of the tent, where shadows danced in the flickering firelight.

“Your human is proving a bit more difficult to capture than you and Peterson,” Eric commented.

Eric’s confession brought a wave of giddy relief.

It must have shown on his face because Eric lifted an eyebrow and studied Van, a silent challenge in his steely eyes.

The glint of steel as Eric unsheathed his large, serrated blade shattered the momentary calm, replacing it with a palpable sense of tension that hung heavy in the air.

“Where’s the human?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

Eric’s eyes narrowed. He stared back at him without blinking. He was telling the truth.

“Was she with you?”

“Obviously not if she isn’t here,” he dryly retorted.

Pain slashed through his shoulder when Eric squatted and pressed the blade through his jacket into his flesh.

He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his face tightening, and glared back at the man, his eyes filled with hatred.

If this was how Eric wanted to play it, then fine, they would play torture the prisoner.

They wouldn’t him break. He had gone through the same trainings they had and not broken.

“Do you really want to play twenty questions over some primitive human? Give her up, Van. You and Peterson would break a female like her. Find yourself a nice shifter.”

“Go fuck yourself, Eric.”

Eric slid the knife into Van’s shoulder, the metal slicing easily through his flesh, until the tip vanished beneath the skin. A sticky, warm sensation spread across his chest as the blood soaked into his shirt. He knew when the serrated portion of the blade started cutting, it wouldn’t be pleasant.

Van hissed when Eric suddenly jerked to the side and withdrew the knife as Peterson released a ferocious snarl and snapped at him.

Eric twisted on the balls of his feet, the muscles in his calves tightening, and rose to his feet.

The two mercs sitting next to the crackling firepit rose in unison, their eyes narrowed and weapons trained on Peterson’s struggling body.

“Stand down,” Eric ordered.

Peterson’s lips curled back as he tried to straighten himself.

He flopped over, his limbs flailing wildly, resembling a fish that had just been pulled from the water.

The tight bindings on his legs and the heavy dose of drugs left him partially immobilized, unable to stand.

Eric chuckled at Peterson’s uncoordinated attempt to defend Van.

“Maybe the human should be looking for better shifters if she has a taste for us,” he commented. He leaned down and wiped the blood on the tip of the blade along Peterson’s side before sheathing it. “Maybe I’ll give her a taste once the others bring her in.”

Van held his tongue, his lips pressed tightly together.

It was clear that further antagonizing Eric would only lead to more trouble, so it was best to avoid initiating any further conflict.

An injury would render him useless, making it impossible for him to protect Jayden or provide aid to Peterson.

He kept his features blank, his face a mask, as Eric studied him for a moment longer. Van’s relief was short-lived when the man who had been in the tent with Eric approached him with a tense expression.

“We’ve lost contact with the trackers,” the man murmured.

Eric’s brow furrowed as he glanced between Van and Peterson, his eyes narrowed as he listened.

His concern grew that the conversation was about Jayden when Eric jerked his head toward the tent.

He strained to hear the men’s conversation, but their voices were lost as they disappeared into the tent.

He glanced up to the tree limb above him, but the owl had vanished without a sound.

“Van.”

He turned his head and focused on Peterson. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, man. It’s just a scratch,” he replied.

Peterson tried to lift his head, but gave up. “Looks like a lot of blood for a scratch.”

“I’ve had hangnails that hurt worse.”

Peterson snorted and blinked. “Jayden?”

The question hung in the air, unasked but heavy, and the knot of dread tightened in his stomach. Eric called out to the two guards who were sitting by the fire. The instructions must have been crucial, as both nodded and vanished into the night without a word.

“They won’t find her. You know how smart she is,” he said.

Peterson lifted his head. “You gotta get this thing off of me. I’m going to rip that bastard’s throat out.”

“You and me both. Just… don’t piss him off until I do. Promise?”

Peterson snorted, laid his head back down, and closed his eyes. “I feel like shit.”

Van chuckled and leaned his head back. “You look like shit, too.”

Jayden peered down from the tree, the branches creaking softly beneath her weight as she watched the forest below.

Through the branches, she saw the warm glow of a campfire and the faint light from a lantern inside a tent.

The full moon turned out to be a silver lining.

It had given her enough light to follow the men’s tracks.