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"They haven't been sent here to hurt me.” Her voice was a low caress that stirred memories he couldn't quite catch. “Just to harass me. Dunleavy doesn't want me to find those two men I mentioned." He swept his gaze across the nearby buildings. “There's no life in any of these buildings."
"I figured there wouldn't be."
"Then why come here?"
"Because I had to check, regardless. Dunleavy might have hidden the prisoners here for the very reason that it was an obvious hiding spot."
Only a woman would think like that. “Do you want assistance?" She gave him a deadpan look. “Hell, no. I'm enjoying myself standing here." He held back his smile. “Two of these wolves are shifters, and as they'll understand every word we're saying, it might be best—"
"They won't understand,” she countered. “Because they're under Dunleavy's spell and following his orders."
"And you know this because...?"
She hesitated. “I'm a witch."
She was a witch as much as he could fly. He frowned, wondering why she was lying. And if she wasn't a witch, how did she know the shifters were spelled?
"Then why don't you magic your way out?"
She sniffed, her look so haughty he couldn't help smiling. God, she looked so damn cute he could kiss her. He quickly quelled the thought. Damn, where was his mind? He was here to avenge Christine, not dally with another woman.
"Magic cannot be raised willy-nilly,” she said, her voice bordering on disdain. “And it should always be used with care."
"That didn't really answer my question."
She hesitated again, then said, in a more normal tone, “I can't raise the magic here. The conditions aren't right for me."
He had a feeling the conditions were never going to be right for her. And that begged an interesting question. Why did she claim to be a witch when she could not raise magic?
"So, as I asked before, do you need to be rescued or not?" "Yes, please,” she said, a touch primly.
He couldn't help smiling again—and three times in one day was something of a record. It seemed to have been forever since he'd last felt so relaxed with someone. He'd even been guarded with Christine, though he'd known her for close to ten years.
He looked past her again, searching the buildings closest to them, looking for one that was long, with exits at either end and had few windows. He found one to the side of the old wooden shack. It had windows, but they were high up and not big enough for a wolf to jump through.
"Do you think the shifters would shift shape if they were trapped?"
"Not until the spell wears off, and I doubt that'll happen until after midnight."
"Midnight being the time Dunleavy intends to kill his prisoners?" She nodded. “So, what's the escape plan?"
"Prepare to be swept off your feet,” he said, blurring into the night. He swept her into his arms, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he raced toward the building. She gasped, her heart a wild tattoo against his chest as she snuggled closer. He couldn't help noticing again that she was not as voluptuous, not as soft, as she appeared. Yet in many ways, he found her lissomeness more appealing.
Behind them, the wolves stirred, howling their anger as they lunged after them. He opened the door of the building and ran through the cobwebbed darkness, his footsteps a whisper that barely stirred the thick dust. Behind them came the clatter of claws as the wolves entered. He opened a second door and ran on. The exit wasn't that far away—but neither were the wolves. Given the fierceness of their snarling, he wasn't putting much weight on her assertion that they weren't intending to harm her.
He opened the last door, glanced over his shoulder, and saw a big gray wolf launch itself at him. He slammed the door shut, heard the thud and saw the door tremble. He placed the blonde back on her feet. “Hold this tight,” he said, indicating the doorknob. Her fingers slid warmly across his. “Where are you going?"
"To lock the other door."
She nodded. He ran around the building and closed the other door. Then he hunted around the nearby buildings for something to secure the doors. Eventually, he found some long lengths of rope in what looked to have been a tool shed. He lashed the handle and tied it back to a rock outcrop. Then he raced back to the blonde.
She looked around as he approached. “You took your time.” Her words were punctuated by thumps against the door.
He showed her the rope then began lashing the door. “Do you have a name?” he asked, realizing he couldn't keep referring to her as “the blonde."
She hesitated again. “Seline."
He looked at her as he began securing the other end of the rope to the door handle of the building directly opposite. “Really?"
