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Hunter’s grip on Meg’s arms tightened. He needed to tell her to run, to get away before—
She dropped him as if disgusted and rose to her feet, even going so far as to dust off her hands, momentarily scowling down at them like they were covered in garbage.
“You took too long,” First said, moving closer, and though his eyes were on Hunter, it was obvious by the way his sister shrugged that the words weren’t meant for him.
“He wasn’t as eager to leave as you made it sound like he would be,” Meg seemed exasperated by that fact.
“Our informant told us he was being held against his will.” First pulled a set of handcuffs from his back pocket, clicking the side so the metal sprang open as he dropped down at Hunter’s side.
Hunter tried to move away, but the world spun and he groaned as a wave of dizziness consumed him. A second later, the cold bite of metal trapping both of his wrists helped a slice of panic to cut through the agony. He looked up at Meg.
“You’re working with Frost?” Isa had kidnapped and threatened to murder her. “Why?”
“Don’t sound so wounded,” she said, for a moment sounding more like the spunky brat of a sister he used to know, before she waved at First. “Take him before someone sees.”
There was no chance to struggle as strong arms lifted him and practically tossed him into the back of a hovervan that must have pulled up to the end of the alley at some point after Hunter had been hit.
It was getting harder for him to stay focused, and he fought against the pull of unconsciousness, knowing that if he passed out now there’d be no chance of escape for him later. The blow to his head had been too hard, however, and before long darkness crept up on him.
His final thought was about how pissed Odin was going to be at him for this.
* * *
When they’d been kids living in the trailer park on the outskirts of the city, they’d turned picking through trash into a game. Who could find the most colorful wrapper? Who could find a soda can? Who could find a half-filled beer? It was their own messed-up version of hide-and-seek, a secret only the two of them knew about.
At the time, Hunter had merely been trying to keep his little sister distracted from their mostly empty bellies and the threadbare clothing they were in. Their mother had been gone for a while by that point, and their father had been called away to prove his loyalty to the Brumal—again—leaving Hunter alone to take care of Meg. He’d been seven.
Still, these past years, whenever he’d thought back on those times, he’d smiled a little, the memories vivid and meaningful in a way. At least he’d been with his sister. He could get through anything so long as he was with his family.
Maybe it was because of the head injury, or maybe he’d mentally numbed himself to the situation as a coping mechanism or some such other bullshit, but when Hunter finally came too, there was no overwhelming sensation of grief or feeling of intense betrayal. Logically, he knew he should be feeling those things. His sister had handed him over to a man who wanted him dead, after all, and yet…
He blinked, his eyes gummy and hard to open, and then winced when he was met with a bright light coming from the left. A glance over showed there was a large open window in the stone wall, only a billowy white curtain tossed over it as a covering. A chill crept in, skating across his skin, cluing him to the fact he felt overheated and unwell.
Something wet was rolling down the side of his face, and he didn’t have to see it to know it was blood, though it couldn’t be from the hit to his head since that had happened on the back.
Lovely.
Forcing his gaze upward, he caught sight of the thick, rough ropes tied tight around his wrists, the material cutting into his flesh already, even though he hadn’t fought against them. The rope was secured over a large meat hook, and he would have chuckled at how cliché that was if he’d had any sort of humor left in him. As it were, all he managed to feel was numb.
Even when he realized he wasn’t wearing any clothing.
“Awake already?” a smooth voice came from across from him. Isa Frost was sitting in a metal chair, one leg folded over the other. He was twirling an open switchblade in his hand absently but didn’t make any moves to attack. “I’m impressed, Huntsman.”
“Don’t,” his voice cracked, and he was forced to pause and try again, “Don’t call me that.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem when my brother does it.”
“You’re not your brother,” the way he said it made it clear what he actually meant.
Isa wasn’t Odin, wasn’t as good as him, and never would be.
“I advise you to err with caution,” Isa said. “You’re not with Odin now, you’re here, with me, and I,” he flicked the sharp blade, the edge glinting in the light, “don’t have nearly as much patience as he does.”
Hunter didn’t bother saying anything to that. There wasn’t really a point to it. Since he’d gotten himself into this mess he was more than willing to resign himself to his fate. He’d been an idiot for leaving Club Cherry, for allowing Meg to lead him so far away where there was less of a chance a Brumal member had seen and gone to alert Snow.
Odin would find out, of course, but by then it would most likely be too late.
Hell, wasn’t it already too late? Isa wasn’t holding onto that knife to be cute. He didn’t make idyll threats, and the last time he’d promised to hurt Hunter he’d followed through almost immediately.
