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a steep flight of stairs in a far corner with a metal railing running down the side. Finally, she recognized the space as an old storage area below the stronghold’s living quarters.
A low, anguished moan broke the silence behind her. With sudden, startling clarity, she knew exactly who was there and braced herself. He’d been bleeding, badly injured, and was bound to be in bad shape. She maneuvered onto her stomach, then her left side. Shock and outrage left her gasping.
“Oh, Tarron, no.”
Although grateful to find him alive, how this was possible she couldn’t imagine. A savage beating had left his body broken and bloodied, the purple bruising forming a multitude of fist-sized patterns all over his torso. Straining against the shackles around his wrists and ankles had cut deep gouges, exposing the bone. The wound in his chest might be from a gun or blade. She couldn’t tell. But it was oozing red, his vampire healing not quite sealing off the gash. Hopefully it would close soon. While she’d been out, someone had been methodically torturing him.
Reaching out, she placed her palm on his cheek. Cold. Too icy, his skin dry rather than hot and sweaty. He struggled with each breath, the sound like the rustle of crackling leaves deep in his chest. If someone didn’t find them tonight, or she couldn’t orchestrate their escape, he would surely die.
They would die anyway, if their side lost the battle.
“Tarron, can you hear me?” Carefully, she tilted his head slightly toward hers.
He stirred and opened his lids with a great deal of effort. His eyes, normally so warm and full of love and humor, were like spun glass. Drugged as well? What the hell could those bastards have in their possession that would drug a vampire? Anger fired her blood. Tarron gazed at her with the barest spark of recognition. Indeed, she wondered whether he was aware of what was happening.
“Do you know who I am?” she tried again.
His face clouded in confusion. For several seconds he stared as if trying to make sense of what she was saying. Then something flickered in his expression.
“Sis?” he rasped. Hope.
Her heart cracked. “Yes, brother. It’s me, Calla,” she said softly.
His brow furrowed, then cleared again. “Calla,” he pleaded, straining. “Got to get free. Get back. . . . Help them.”
Her throat threatened to close up.
“Neither of us is going anywhere for now. Stay with me, Tarron. Do you hear? Just hang on. They’re gonna find us real soon.” That, she feared, was an outright lie. Nick, his team, and Tarron’s men would be frantically scouring the stronghold looking for them soon—but only if they won the fight. If they didn’t . . . Well, she tried not to think of what Ivan would do to them when he came.
And he would come; she was sure of that.
Tarron’s lids fluttered closed again and his body shuddered as he let out a long sigh. He’d gone completely still, and for one panic-stricken moment, she thought he’d stopped breathing. Then there it was, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He hadn’t given up.
“That’s it. Keep fighting,” she encouraged.
Gently, she caressed his cheek, stroked the sable hair falling to his shoulders. Perhaps her touch could keep him connected to this world long enough to make it out of here.
Her thoughts turned to Nick. She was numb with terror for him. Ivan could use her and Tarron to lure him into some sort of trap, even if the battle went in Nick’s favor. What, if anything, could she do to thwart Ivan’s plans?
“Calla.”
Tarron’s soft murmur jarred her. His eyes were open again, looking at her with such intensity, she shivered.
“In my pocket,” Tarron gasped. “Take it.”
Falling silent, he let his eyes close again. She studied his jeans, but there didn’t appear to be anything in his pockets. Still, she reached with her free hand into his right front pocket. Nothing, save a ball of lint. Next, she wormed her hand down into the one on the left. The tip of her index finger bumped something and she dug deeper.
Calla’s fingers closed around something oblong and smooth. Immediately, she knew what he’d wanted her to find. Drawing it out, hope flared as she perused the object. It was a small pocketknife, about three inches in length. A dot of hope began to grow inside her as she held the tool.
Securing the knife, she wedged her thumb and index finger in the groove of the main blade and pulled. The first time, the knife slipped from her grasp. The second time, the blade popped open. Now she had to decide how to position it. She settled on making a fist with the blade protruding between the two middle fingers of her right hand. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best she could do, and she silently thanked her brother.
Ivan or one of his underlings would be here before long. The small knife was her only protection and she would save it until absolutely necessary. Then what? The small blade was a one-shot proposition. Calla tucked her right hand under her body, hidden from view.
And she waited for the devil’s return.
Thirteen
Nick wasn’t sure how long he’d fought before he realized that Calla and Tarron had disappeared.
