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“Tell me your name and I’ll answer your question.”
She paused for a moment, her lips pulling back tight. “Sloane.” The word seethed from her mouth.
He offered a quick nod. “Sloane it is. I am Reiner. And I didn’t get you anywhere. You got yourself to my grounds and I merely had the lump of you picked up from the dirt and set in here. But I’m pretty well convinced you already know that fact.”
Confusion sank her gaze to slits, deep lines etching out from the edges of her eyes.
Reiner had to give her credit—she played it well, an actress of the highest order.
She gasped a deep breath, the air shaky into her lungs. “No. Impossible. I—I don’t ken a Wolf—what is it?”
“Wolfbridge.”
“No.” Her look went hard. “No. I don’t ken a Wolfbridge Castle.” She flicked the blade higher. “Now let us try the truth, sir. Who are you?”
“I’m not the one telling lies, Sloane, if that is your true name.” His left arm flicked up from the clamp across his chest and his finger circled around the room. “And you will be my guest—locked in here, of course, until you can remember who you are and what you planned to do once you broke into my home.”
Her gaze flew about the room, pausing on one of the locked shutters across the windows. Her look travelled to each shutter. Two. Three. Four. All locked. Her head swiveled to the door. Closed.
Without warning, she lunged at him, dagger swiping wide. Reiner jumped a step backward just out of her reach.
A gargled squeak choked through her throat and her chest heaved in panic—in anger. His gaze dipped down.
Damn, the water had seeped onto the front of her dress, soaking it and turning the dark fabric almost transparent. Thin stays and an even thinner chemise matted to the fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination.
“What?” Her face scrunched in confusion for a second and then she followed his gaze, looking down.
Her stare flung up. “You bloody heathen.” She lurched forward with the dagger high, swinging for him.
Reiner side-stepped her, dodging the flashing blade. He kept moving, forcing her to circle him. Swipe after swipe through the air, but she couldn’t come close enough to nick skin.
They rounded each other four times.
“My brothers.” Her voice screeched, the dagger swiping. “My brothers will come for you—they’ll come for you with the force of a hundred men raging for blood.”
“I doubt it.” He dodged to the right, then stepped toward her and snatched her flailing wrist in midair.
She screamed and he twisted her back toward the bed, cracking the bones of her forearm across the left bottom bedpost. The dagger clattered to the wood floor.
He leaned in, his breath fuming as he set his face directly before hers. “Tell me who you work for.”
Their eyes locked. For all his oversized menacing, she stared up at him with just as much raging defiance.
Five minutes with her and he’d lost his temper.
He never lost his temper.
The one tenet of his life. Always in control. Cold and in control.
He stood straight, tossing her wrist to the side, and bent to pick up the dagger. It had served its purpose.
Quick—a ghost wisping past him—she ran for the fireplace and picked up the iron poker.
Spinning fast, she swung it out. Swung it hard, the air whooshing around the metal.
She twisted on her feet, losing her balance and stumbling to the side. “My head.” Her left hand went up, gripping at the lump at her temple. “Oh—hell—it hurts—it—” She fumbled another step to the left. “What—what did you do—it—”
She swayed in a wide circle, her face blanching white.
