Twilight Hunter (The Execution Underground) (5 page)

But damn, she had to try something.

Think, Frankie. Think.

Trying every handle and unlock button—no easy feat while handcuffed—hadn’t yielded any luck, either. The hunter hadn’t lied—there was no way in hell she could get out of this gas-guzzler unless he allowed it.

She kicked the window out of sheer annoyance. Though it had proved impossible to break earlier, she had to keep trying. Her foot slammed into the glass. The release of tension calmed her, and she side-kicked harder, finally leaving a solid crack, but the window refused to shatter. It had to be bulletproof.

Tomorrow. She would escape tomorrow. When the mating call had passed and she was back to her full power, she would take the bastard down. She would be in top shape. Already the knife wound and her scrapes had healed, despite the weakness associated with her mating cycle. But until then, she was stuck. Damn.

“Stupid. Handsome. Kidnapping. Psycho,” she grumbled, timing a word with each blow. Cracks splintered across the glass, but it still refused to break.

“What the
hell
are you doing to my car?”

She peered into the front seat. The hunter was back, so quiet and stealthy, she hadn’t heard him arrive.

He twisted the rearview mirror to watch her. “I thought I told you there was no point in wasting your energy?”

“I had to try. You could’ve been lying.”

The car’s engine purred to life. He shifted into Drive, and they sped away from the warehouse. “I am
not
a liar.” His words sounded like a growl.

Frankie’s eyes widened. Apparently she’d jabbed a soft spot. She fought to keep a smirk off her face as she realized the advantage this could give her. She thanked herself for paying attention in psychology way back in high school, before dance became her focus.

“Well, if you’re not a liar, that must mean you’re not a bad guy, right?”

“What are you getting at?” he said, his voice as gruff and angry as before.

“I mean to say, if you’re not a bad guy, why bother taking me captive? You’re not going to kill me or you would’ve done it already.”

“Are you sure?”

The pit of her stomach shimmied like she was teaching one of her salsa classes. She wasn’t sure. But she had to take the chance. She wanted him to be good. Needed him to be good. Her life depended on it.

Right now, Mr. Hunky Hunter saw her as an object, a monster, exactly like his job told him to. She needed to humanize herself.

“You know, I’d really like some clothes. I had some stuffed in a backpack near where you caught me. I’m a normal person. I don’t usually walk around nude.”

“You do when you’re with your pack.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “If you’re even part of a pack.”

She coughed, trying to take in as little smoke as possible. He smelled beautiful, but the smoke drowned out his natural scent. The man seriously needed NicoDerm CQ. He blew out more smoke, and she swore she could already feel her lungs shriveling into black prunes.

“Are you? Part of a pack?”

She stayed silent. Would he hate her more if she belonged to a pack or if she were a rogue? Considering the recent DOA rogues, she would bet on the latter.

“A rogue, huh?” He glanced at her in the mirror.

Her heart pounded faster as she stared into the reflection of his luminous green eyes. She cleared her throat. Damn hormones. “I’m in a pack.”

Her
pack. Even after functioning as packmaster for three years, she still struggled to absorb the idea. But through her blood, she had birthright, and since her mother and father’s deaths, she had fulfilled her duty. No brothers, no sisters, no cousins. Just her. She was the only one left, and now the first Alpha female ever to run Rochester.

He turned to the road again, and she leaned into her seat. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer her. His gaze was focused on the road ahead of him with an intense concentration. A strand of his silky auburn hair slid across his headrest, and her fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Ruggedly handsome, the hunter looked as if he’d strolled out of one of her most intimate fantasies, and the image of her hands running over his strong, muscled shoulders shook her.

The car stopped, and her whole body jerked forward. The hunter hurried from the car. A cold burst of air rushed into the vehicle as he opened the door beside her. He leaned in close and pushed the barrel of his gun into her lower back.

“You know the drill. Don’t say a damn word.”

She clamped her jaw shut and didn’t move.

“Good girl. Now get out of the car.”

Slowly she stepped out of the Hummer, praying for someone to see her and call the cops to report her for indecent exposure. Man, would she love to see a cop right now. Her captor grabbed hold of her arms and led her onto the sidewalk toward a nearby brownstone. He marched her right up to the entryway before he paused and entered the door code. As soon as the green button lit up, he pushed her inside and paraded her up the stairs.

They climbed two flights and finally reached a shabby wooden door sporting a pitted brass number six hanging a little too far to the right. He pulled a key—hanging on a chain like a dog tag—from inside his shirt and jammed it into the lock. The tumblers clicked, and he hurried Frankie into the run-down apartment.

Bleak. That was the one word to describe the small space. A flattened, faded, brown couch sat in the middle of the room, facing a T.V. From the dust on the screen, it was rarely, if ever, used. A small gas stove, a refrigerator, and of course, every man’s best cooking pal, a microwave, sat against the far wall—no division between the living room and the makeshift kitchen. An open door stood across from her, leading into what appeared to be his bedroom. The faint scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” she said as he herded her farther into the apartment.

He ignored her sarcasm and used his key to lock the door behind them. “It locks from the inside, so don’t try to get out.” Standing there handcuffed and naked, she watched him wander into his bedroom, peel off his trench coat and throw it onto the bed.

She wiggled her wrists around, fighting against the handcuffs to no avail. She could already feel the silver beginning to burn her skin. What the hell was she supposed to do? Just stand and wait? She glanced up again, and her breath stopped short as the hunter turned and met her gaze. A warm flush crept through her, and a flood of heat emanated from her core. His appeal in the alleyway was nothing compared to the handsome, rugged man who stood before her now.

In the light, his dark auburn hair glistened and the vibrancy in his emerald eyes took on a life of its own. With the trench coat gone, he sported a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt that conveniently hugged his muscular body in all the right places. She slouched in on herself, trying to hide her bare breasts. The thought of his hair brushing against her cheek while he laid her down crossed her mind.

She lowered her stare to the floor. “Um...can I have some clothes, or at least something to cover up?”

When she looked at him again, all the air rushed from her lungs. His eyes ran over her body, and she would have sworn his irises flashed a hint of gold, the familiar color of a wolf’s eyes. But that couldn’t be right. He
hunted
her kind. She shook her head.

Friggin’ Stockholm syndrome!

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Nothing. My mind is just playing tricks on me, that’s all.” She paused. “The clothes...uh...please?”

He looked at her for another long moment before he walked into his room. He returned with a white dress shirt extended in his hand.

She rattled her handcuffs. “A little help would be nice.”

He stalked behind her, his gait smooth and graceful like an animal’s. Yanking her closer to him, he worked at the cuffs. She stumbled and bumped into him. Her whole body froze. She clenched her thighs together as a wave of desire rolled through her, leaving her core hot and ready from the feeling of his arousal pressed against her.

* * *

J
ACE
FOUGHT
TO
keep his breath steady and avoid panting like a rabid dog. He wanted to bend her over and take her right there, just like that—enter her hard and deep, reaching places where she’d never been touched. He unhooked the cuffs and held out the shirt. Princess slipped her arms in the sleeves. He stared at her with hunger in his eyes, his hands aching to run up her arms, over her shoulders and down onto her beautiful breasts.

Man, he was one sick pervert. He’d dragged her here in handcuffs, and now he was eying her like she was his own walking pin-up girl.

She finished buttoning the shirt, and he pointed to the bedroom. “Bed. Now.”

“Wh-what?” The word sounded as if she were straining for air.

He pointed to the gun still holstered at his hip. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Bed. Now.” He gave her a small nudge between the shoulders, and she shuffled toward the bedroom. He wiped his hand off like she was contaminated. Every time their skin touched an electric current jolted his body, leaving him with a strong, powerful feeling, like a freshly recharged battery.

Princess froze when she reached the mattress.

He placed his hand on his gun, ready to draw. “What the hell are you standing there for? Get on the bed.”

Without warning, she spun around and charged him, knocking into him full force and toppling them both to the ground. Shit, he should’ve put the cuffs back on her. She threw a punch and hit him square in the jaw. He grabbed her fist and pushed her away. Damn, she packed a punch. She struggled against him, holding her own better than many male werewolves he’d fought, but he shoved her hard. He had his own supernatural advantages. From the startled look in her eyes, she hadn’t expected his strength. She scrambled into a crouched position and paused just long enough for him to pull his gun.

He pointed the barrel straight at her head. “What the hell are you thinking? I told you not to try anything,” he growled. “Make this easier on both of us and do as I say.”

She stood as he simultaneously rose to his feet, gun still pointed straight for her. “Get on the bed. I swear, if you do anything else, I will put one of these bullets right through your skull. Don’t make me do anything we’ll both regret later.”

Her eyes grew wide as she inched toward the mattress, her hands up in surrender. “You’re not going to—”

He sighed. “I may be holding you captive, but I’m no rapist. I spend my days hunting and killing werewolves, not sleeping with them. Now, get on the damn bed. Just because I won’t take advantage of you doesn’t mean you won’t be first on my shit list if you don’t cooperate.”

She climbed onto the bed.

“Wrist,” he mumbled. She lifted her arm and he slapped the cuff on, hooking it to the headboard to chain her in place. “Don’t try anything stupid while I get the other one.”

He wandered into his closet and retrieved his only other set. When he returned, he caught her pulling against the cuffs. “I thought I told you not to try anything stupid.”

“I think sitting here and doing nothing would’ve been more idiotic. You can’t expect me not to fight.” She stopped fiddling with the cuffs and shot him a glare. “You’re so lucky I can’t shift.”

“Why do you have to be so uncooperative? Usually, following the orders of someone who’s threatening to kill you is a good idea, but you still keep challenging me.”

“At the moment you’re not threatening to kill me, you’re just standing there.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t push my buttons. I don’t have time for your crap.” He walked to the other side of the bed. Grabbing her wrist, he cuffed her free arm to the other side.

She writhed and fought against the restraints in between breaths. “And you think
I
have time for this? I have a
life.
Unlike you, I spend my time doing constructive things rather than hunting down innocent people.”

Jace strolled over to his trench coat and dug his flask out of the pocket. “Innocent? I found you at a murder scene. Your innocence is somewhat questionable.”

“We both know I didn’t do it. I was looking for the killer,” she said. “I told you. No blood, no weapons and no male equipment.”

He meandered into the “kitchen.” “You think I don’t know that? If I thought you did it, you’d already be buried six feet under.” The Bushmills sat at the front of the cabinet. He grabbed it, poured some in the flask for later and then carried the whole bottle back to the bedroom. “You may not be the killer, but how can I trust that your goal is the same as mine?”

“My goal
is
the same. Why else would I have been in that alley? If you know I didn’t do it, why the hell are you holding me?”

“To get to the Rochester packmaster.”

Her eyes widened, and she blinked several times. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He took a swig from the whiskey bottle. “No, I’m not. That son of a bitch Frankie Amato has got another think coming if he thinks I’m gonna take care of business for him. Every night I’ve been patrolling, looking for the sick fuck who’s hurting these women, and are any of his men out searching? No. There should be werewolves prowling everywhere, if not to help, then at least to cover his ass. Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone in the Rochester pack is doing this.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so biased and hateful, you’d realize that Frankie is trying his best. I volunteered to search for the killer.” Her nostrils flared as she exhaled a long breath. Her anger reminded him of an animal in fight mode—powerful and stubborn.

He scoffed. “Oh, so he sends a lone female werewolf to do his work? Where are the rest of you?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to endanger his pack members.” Her full lower lip quivered and contradicted all the fire in her eyes.

“Better werewolves than innocent people.”

She froze as if he’d stabbed her in the chest. Her cheeks flushed as her shock boiled into rage. “How can you say that? We
are
people.”