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"Probably our passenger. Don't worry, with all the broken bones he's got, he ain't going nowhere."
"Nowhere but the farming labs."
They both laughed. Relief slithered through me. Rhoan released my nose, and as I glanced down, the golden haze of changing began to slide over his broken body, snatching his pain from my mind even as it began healing his wounds. He didn't stay long in his wolf form - it was hard to do so when the pain and the wounds are so great - but at least in shifting back, the healing was helped along that little bit further. I shifted shape myself, then wrapped my fingers around his and waited.
I had no idea how long it was before the Directorate arrived. It was probably only a few minutes later, but it seemed like forever before the truck rattled to a stop. There was no fighting, no nothing, just a stationary truck and two silent guards.
Then the backboard opened and Jack was there. "About bloody time," I muttered.
"We couldn't stop the truck any closer to the gates. They would have seen us." He climbed into the truck and hunkered down beside me. "How is he?"
"He'll live." It was Moss and Starr who wouldn't.
"Good." Jack's gaze went to Rhoan. "Why did this happen?"
"I don't know." He coughed, a hacking sound that tore at me. "But he knew who I was."
"How?"
He shrugged, and gave a bitter laugh, "He gave me one small comfort, though. He said I was a good fuck and he'd miss me. At least I haven't lost my touch in that area."
Something inside froze.
I'd heard those words before.
In the Blue Moon, when Rhoan had been snatched for milking and I'd only just started looking for him. I'd gone there to find either of Rhoan's mates in the vague hope they might know something. Liander hadn't been there, but Davern was. He'd been sitting at a table, getting pissed because he'd broken up with some guy. When I'd asked him why it even mattered, he'd repeated that same phrase. That exact same phrase.
That was why Starr's bloodshot eyes had seemed so familiar. Davern's eyes that night were the image of Starr's.
Davern was Starr.
But if that were true, why had Misha said that the ringleader of this whole shebang didn't know who I was? Had he been primed to say that at a certain question? Misha might have skirmished from the edges and found ways to avoid some of Starr's edicts, but in the end, he couldn't totally escape the control Starr had on him. And that control had killed him.
"Riley?"
I blinked at the sharpness in my brother's voice, and glanced down. "It's Davern. Starr is Davern."
"What?" Jack and Rhoan said as one.
"Where the hell did that conclusion come from?" Jack added.
I shrugged. In truth, I probably couldn't justify the statement with facts, but intuition had gotten me out of more trouble than it had landed me in, and I wasn't about to start questioning it now. "When I met Starr for the first time, he felt familiar. There was something about his eyes I'd seen before - and now I remember where. In the Blue Moon, when I was talking to Davern and trying to find Rhoan. I thought at the time his eyes were red because of the booze, but, despite appearances, he didn't really act drunk. He said he'd just broken up with another mate and used that exact term."
"Coincidence."
I glanced at Jack. "Is it? Misha told us several times that the man behind all this was someone in my life. We'd always presumed that meant a lover of mine, but Rhoan's mates are in my life as much as his."
"He's from the Helki pack," Rhoan mused. "They're able to take on multiple human forms, so in theory, it could be possible."
"But it makes no sense that Davern would do that. He had Misha and Talon watching Riley, and Gautier at the Directorate. He didn't need to put anyone on you, much less become your lover himself."
"Maybe Gautier reported that Rhoan needed to be watched, and Davern either had no one else he trusted, or no one who was homosexual." I looked at my brother. "Did he ask you any questions while you were being tortured?"
"No."
"And why not? Because he didn't need to. He might have been suspicious about your identity before our fight, but when he took you to bed, he knew for sure." I grinned faintly. "A man's technique rarely varies, and is usually unique to himself."
"Thought there was something familiar in the way he went about business," Rhoan murmured. "But I was too busy concentrating on where all the weapons were and making sure none of them were missing."
