Page 63 of What a Wolf Demands

“Lily?” Bart’s voice was thin and hoarse, but she’d recognize his Cajun accent anywhere.

Dom had stopped tugging when Bart spoke. She took advantage now, slipping his hold and going on her toes so she could look through the opening.

“No!” Dom gripped her shoulder.

But it was too late.

Bart sat on a chair in the middle of the otherwise empty cell, his legs spread and secured to the chair’s legs with thick ropes. His upper body was bare, his skin shiny and streaked with dirt. Someone had tied a strip of red cloth around his eyes.

Anger pounded through her. “Bart? What have they done to you?”

He lifted his head.

And that’s when she saw the cloth wasn’t red. It was stained with blood. More red streaked his cheeks as if he’d wept tears of blood.

“Lily,” he gasped, turning his head this way and that. “Get out of here, girl.”

Her throat burned. Luc Thibeaux is a dead fucking werewolf. She had to swallow a couple times before she could speak. “We’re going to get you out,” she told him. “Just as soon as Dom picks the lock.”

“No.” Beneath the cloth, his expression was anguished. “It’s too late for me. I’d just slow you down.” He turned his head a little. “I already told you that, wolf.”

Beside her, Dom stiffened. Voice gruff, he said, “I’ll get you out.”

“Just get her out,” Bart said. “Before they come back.”

Lily had heard enough. “We’re not leaving you here. Dom’s going to open the lock. We’re going to untie you, and you’re coming with us. We have a car—”

“They took my eyes, Lily.”

She frowned. He was obviously delirious—probably starved for food and water. She made her voice gentle. “We’ll take the blindfold off, Bart.”

He shook his head.

Dom lay a hand on her shoulder.

She glanced at him, confusion swirling. “What . . .”

Bart spoke. “They took my eyes.”

Nausea, hot and violent, surged up her throat.

Dom moved before she did, maneuvering her sideways so she could double over, bile spilling onto the stone. She retched, her hands on her knees as her stomach turned inside out. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her whole body trembled. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

Gentle hands gathered her hair and held it away from her face, and a warm palm pressed between her shoulder blades.

When it was over, she straightened.

Dom turned her and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. Then he wiped at her mouth with his sleeve.

She stood as still and docile as a toddler, too heartsick and weary to protest. Finally, she managed to croak, “He’s Sighted.” Tears rushed into her eyes, and she sucked in a breath. “Was Sighted.”

“He told me.” Dom’s face was grim.

“That’s why they—” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

But she didn’t have to. He gave a short nod, letting her know he understood. As a Sighted wolf, Bart had possessed something of a rare Gift. Such wolves could see as well as an eagle, zooming in on objects up to two miles away. Once or twice, he’d hinted that his vision had helped him survive the war.

And now it was gone—his beautiful Gift destroyed.

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