Hunters' Shadow (Book one of the Hunter Chronicles)

Chapter Forty Eight



Eyes black as coal and tinged with firelight. They stared at Hannah unwaveringly as she struggled to pull herself upright. Again.

"How's your neck?" her captor asked her in an emotionless voice.

She glared at him. "Sore."

He offered her a feral grin, exposing his cracked teeth. "Good. Maybe this time you'll stay where you're supposed to."

She bit her lip, suppressing a sigh of frustration. Three days. Three days she'd been locked up in her cramped little cell with no natural sunlight and little idea of anything happening beyond her, now heavily, guarded doors.

The thick stone walls cut off all sound and seemed to loom inwards, holding onto her as tight as a straight jacket holds a patient in a padded room. Every minute trapped within them felt like an hour.

If it weren't for Fenrik's frequent visits, she would barely be aware of the passage of day and night. He came to her cell often, as if his presence somehow lent an air of civility to her captivity.

He always arrived laden with food, and took care to sample each dish before setting it in front of her, to prove there were no drugs hidden amongst the spices.

She glanced hopefully towards the heavy oak door, craving the draft that swept into the room whenever it was opened. Unfortunately, Fenrik had been smart enough to close it firmly behind him once he'd entered.

Her chest tightened with disappointment, but she didn't blame him. Since her first desperate escape, last night had been the third time that she'd attempted to flee her captivity and, by the dangerous look in his dark, piercing eyes, his patience with her antics was wearing thin.

"You said I wouldn't be here long," she accused him, rubbing her neck yet again in a futile attempt to numb the pain.

He shrugged, but the fire in his eyes glowed brighter. "I said how long you were here would depend on your Alpha. Plans changed."

There was an emphasis on his last words that made her take a sharper look at her captor. His demeanour had changed. The differences were subtle, but she sensed a heightened tension in his words that defied his civil tone.

Her relationship with Fenrik had become, for lack of a better word, complicated.

He seemed to enjoy the illusion of civility he had created around her, and their meals were lengthy and filled with random conversation.

From everything she'd learned during her time here, the mercenaries hovered precariously somewhere between the structured life of a pack, and the savage chaos of the rogue world. Civil conversation was hard to find.

There was little to be gained by railing against him, he held all the power here, and she was quick to realise that the control he wielded over his group of rogues was all that kept her out of harm's way.

So, she let him talk, gleaning what information she could from him and answering his never-ending stream of questions with polite restraint.

For a brief moment, while he'd quizzed her about her time in Blackridge, the horrifying thought had occurred to her that the rogues might have deliberately released her and sent her barrelling in the direction of the pack to act as some sort of unconscious spy.

She'd dismissed the idea just as easily.

For one, such a plan would involve far to many ifs, buts and maybes for a man like Fenrik. And for another, none of the questions he asked about the pack seemed to focus on any information useful for an invading army.