Page 8 of Broken

It looked like it was part of the old city—brick-lined, with nasty slime on the floor. He started off without speaking, walking quickly and purposefully, glancing back briefly to make sure she was following.

What else could she do?

They walked for maybe a half a mile. The tunnels turned and branched, but he never hesitated. He had a flashlight attached to his vest that gave a little light, but Ireland still couldn’t see where she was putting her feet, and a few times she stepped on squishy, foul-smelling stuff and almost slipped.

The pain in her side was getting worse, and she didn’t know how much further he intended to go. “Hey,” she panted. He didn’t turn around. She spoke louder. “Hey, whatever-your-name-is!”

No response.

Finally, she ran forward and grabbed the strap on one of the bags he carried, dug in her heels, and held on, ignoring the stab of pain in her side. He was yanked back and swung around, facing her.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want to get captured?”

“No,” she snapped. “But you seem to be doing it anyway.”

For a second he looked shocked, and then his face went blank. “I’m not capturing you. I told you. I’m rescuing you. That’s what I came for.”

“Wait a minute. How did you know the Retrievers would be there for you to rescue me from?”

“I didn’t. I was rescuing you from Riker.”

From Riker? “I didn’t need rescuing from Riker,” she said. “He was my Protector.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You were working with him willingly?” In the shadowy light from his chest lamp, she could see micro-expressions chase each other across his face, as though he were just putting things together. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You were partners.”

From the look on his face, it seemed like he’d just lost sympathy for her. Or at least, respect. She asked, “What do you have against Riker?”

“How long have you got?” he asked bitterly, and then said, “Never mind. We don’t have any time. Those Retrievers—” he seemed to be turning the name over on his tongue, as if it were strange to him, “those Retrievers are still after us. I can feel it. You might have convinced Riker to die for you, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not. So let’s go.”

He turned to walk away. Again. Ireland was done. She kicked the back of his knee and yanked on the bag again. Pain knifed through her, and she sucked in her breath.

Cole stopped. “You are hurt,” he said brusquely. “Why the fuck didn’t you say?” And he swept her up into his arms.

That strange growl rose up inside her. “What the fuck? Put me down!”

“Shut up,” he said. “I told you I’m not getting killed today—and I’m definitely not getting killed because you’re too proud to admit you need help.”

Ireland wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. So she shut up and let him carry her. Maybe it would wear him out and make it easier for her to escape later.

And then she got a hint of his scent, underneath the blood, sweat, and Retriever ichor. Warm, musky, with the hint of dark forest. And wolf. He was a shifter, a creature of the Dark. And whatever he claimed, he was kidnapping her.

Cole instantly realized that carrying the girl was a mistake. Before, her scent had been masked by their surroundings. But now she was literally in his face, and her scent was overwhelming. Bood and sweat and fear—and Riker—but also an interesting hint of wolf, and something else indefinable that seemed to conjure up memories of home—warm kitchens and cookies and happy family holidays. Love and laughter and safety.

Faint, vague, long-ago memories, before his father found out his mother was a shifter, and her sons along with her.

Before he started beating them up. Before she disappeared for good.

Nothing was warm and safe after that.

He wanted to put this woman down, walk away, make it stop. And he wanted to bury his face in her skin, and somehow hold onto those feelings.

It was a relief when they came to the rusted metal ladder bolted to the wall, that led to the tunnel exit. He put Ireland down. “I’m going up first, to make sure it’s clear,” he said. “Do not knife me in the back.”

He could hear her breathing heavily, and the scent of blood wafted up from her. He hoped she didn’t pass out before she got to the top of the ladder. Afterwards would be okay—it would make her easier to deal with.

Cole reached the top, put his shoulder against the manhole cover and heaved. It moved with a grating sound, and he shoved it aside and poked his head out into the evening light.

They were in a narrow alley between two buildings, with no one there but a homeless man huddled against the wall, drinking out of a brown-bag-covered bottle.