Page 27 of Brock’s Mate

Last night came crashing back into her mind. The bar, and Brock; the run through the woods and their conversation in the back seat of the car.

She was a fucking werewolf. And she was in bed with a stranger. That was just fucking perfect.

Damn, she really had to pee.

She slid slowly out from under the arm. The guy was dead to the world—didn’t move. A prisoner like her? Drugged?

She turned.

It was Brock. That was why he smelled familiar. They were in a basement somewhere, in a real-live old-fashioned cell with floor-to-ceiling bars.

No guard, though. That was good.

Even better, there was a toilet, although there was no privacy. She got up and pulled the blanket off the mattress they were lying on, draping it awkwardly around her waist so she could drop her jeans and use the toilet.

Much better.

Now she could figure a way out.

She was about to wake up Brock when she noticed his phone in his back pocket.

Desi froze.

If he were a prisoner, they would have taken his phone. He must have locked both of them in here. In case they turned werewolf again?

Which they clearly hadn’t, because they were both dressed.

She thought back. Her memories of last night were hazy in places, but she remembered someone attacking her after she got home. Brock must have followed her and grabbed her, and brought her here to keep her captive.

That would be a hard ‘no.’

Moving quietly, Desi went to the door and examined the electronic lock as well as she could from the inside. Keypad and fingerprint scanner. Did you need a code and a fingerprint to open it? Or just one or the other?

She glanced down at Brock.

He’d rolled over and was lying on his left side, near the bars.

Oh-so-carefully, she picked up his right hand and lifted it gently towards the scanner plate. It didn’t quite reach.

She stretched it out a little further, and a little further, tensing her muscles to shove the door open and run as soon as it opened.

Without opening his eyes, Brock said, “I’m counting myself lucky you didn’t find my pocket knife. Otherwise you’d have probably just cut my finger off and used it to escape. And then had it mounted as a souvenir.”

Desi dropped his hand and backed off. “Says the man who has a serial-killer cell in his fucking basement.”

Brock sat up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He looked scruffy and sleepy and hotter than any man had a right to. He said, “Maybe I need to lock myself in to keep from ravaging the countryside during the full moon.”

Desi leaned against the bars. “Fuck. We really do have to do that?”

“No. We really don’t.” He had the nerve to grin at her. Fucker.

“Then we are in here because…” He didn’t answer, and she added, “I can still bite your finger off and use it to get out of here.”

He sighed. “Okay. Do you remember going back to your house after you left me, and being captured by some yahoo in a black van, named DiSantos?”

Desi concentrated until more memories surfaced. It wasn’t Brock who’d attacked her. She’d caught a glimpse of a guy in black…

“Sort of?” She tried to think back. She’d been in her room, packing. And she remembered hearing glass breaking, and then a sting like a giant horsefly had bitten her, and looking down to see a dart sticking out of her arm.