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“The cat pounced on me from behind,” he ground out.
Sebastian examined his brother’s back. Claw marks ran down the length of it all the way to the base of his spine. Cloth was torn and skin was shredded. It was like she’d landed on his nape, hooked her claws into his flesh, and then dragged them right through his skin as she skidded downwards.
“She’s in here!” Wattie yelled.
Snarling, Sebastian darted back into the living area, his wolf raking at his insides; demanding release so he could savage the cat.
“She ran under the sofa,” Wattie told him.
Sebastian whipped out his gun—topped with a silencer so as not to attract unwanted attention from neighbors—and pulled the trigger again and again, peppering the couch with bullets. A hissing yowl of pain rang out.
He smirked, prowling to the sofa. He moved it out of the way… and his smirk faded in an instant. There was nothing. Not even the scent of blood.
He clenched his fist. “That fucking cat is toying with us. I’m gonna blow her head off, I swear to Christ.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
So tense with the sense of urgency thrumming through him, Isaiah almost jumped when his phone rang. Leaning forward in the front passenger seat, he whipped it out of his back pocket. Farrell.
Putting the cell on speakerphone so that Evander would be able to hear everything, Isaiah answered with: “Tell me.” The words came out hard and fast.
Farrell pulled in a breath. “Sebastian Vercetti is in your house,” he reluctantly admitted.
Isaiah hissed out a breath. Rage, powerlessness, torment, anxiety, panic, horror—it all pummeled him like a shower of sharp rocks. His cat went AWOL.
“Jesus Christ,” breathed Evander, pressing his foot harder on the pedal.
“Davide is there as well, and another of their pack mates,” Farrell went on.
Isaiah gripped the edge of his seat as if it could anchor him. Truth be told, nothing could steady him in that moment. “And Quinley?” The question came out choked. He knew she was alive, because he could feel her. But “alive” didn’t mean “conscious” or “uninjured.”
“Unhurt, by the looks of it. It’s hard to tell.”
“Round up some pride mates and get inside the—”
“A bunch of us are discreetly surrounding the house,” Farrell assured him, “but we can’t barge in there.”
Isaiah scowled. “Why the hell not?”
A pause. “They’ve attached explosives to the walls.”
Terror spiked through Isaiah’s blood and made his gut roll. “What?”
“I don’t know if they’ve come ready to die here or if they just intend to blow up the house when they’re away from it. Either way, if they think they have no way out, if they feel cornered, they might set off the explosives.”
Isaiah squeezed his eyes shut.
“We have to move cautiously,” Farrell continued. “Sneaking inside wouldn’t be a problem. But if the pack detects our presence, they might press the detonator.”
Isaiah rubbed hard at his forehead. “Why are they even there if it’s not to kill Quinley?” Were they waiting for him?
“It does seem that their goal is to get rid of her. But, even armed, they’re having a difficult time with that. Mostly because they can’t find her.”
Isaiah’s hand dropped to his lap. “They can’t find her?”
“She’s in her cat form, hiding. She pops out every now and then, deals them a little injury, and then disappears again.”
Jesus. Isaiah didn’t know if he wanted to give her a metaphorical bow for her mercilessness or to shake her for not staying completely out of the pack’s sight. His inner feline was leading toward the first. “So she’s playing with them.”
