Chapter 281: She Was Not Their Lost and Found

Dove kept her head down while Rusk enjoyed himself, because apparently finding a terrified woman on the ground counted as a lovely afternoon for him.

She wanted to put her boot through his teeth. First she needed to know where she was, where they kept the keys, and whether any of these assholes had a radio.

The square board rested on cracked pavement beside a low brick office. Beyond it, a chain-link fence circled a yard full of orange road cones, work trucks, and stacks of concrete pipe. COUNTY ROAD MAINTENANCE appeared on a faded sign beside the main gate. She could read the large letters from here, but a tree hid the smaller ones beneath them.

Michigan still had normal buildings. People had simply found exciting new ways to be horrible inside them.

"Get up," Rusk said, reaching for her.

Dove pulled her hand against her stomach. "I think I’m going to throw up."

That stopped him faster than the biting had stopped the other man. She bent over her knees, breathing hard, and pressed her fingers beneath the board’s rough edge. Loose fur clung to her torn skirt where she had fallen. She pinched a few pale strands and caught them on a splinter underneath.

It wasn’t much. It was something that had been on her body, left somewhere her body had been, and she refused to leave her husbands nothing.

Can you tell if there’s another way out?

I can see what you see, Sprout answered. Looking up would help.

Excellent. Kidnapped with a smart-ass.

She lifted her face slowly. The exhausted transport man sat on the board behind her, wiping sweat from his upper lip. His hand shook when he reached for a water bottle. That jump had cost him something. Good. She hoped his next one cost him a testicle.

The former Warren guard stood at the office door. Two other men watched the gate. One wore a gray tank top and carried a shotgun pointed at the ground; the other kept checking the road beyond the fence. Neither looked pleased to see her. Their eyes kept moving from her to the transport man, as though they were already counting the trouble.

"Where’s my beast husband?" she asked.

Rusk clicked his tongue. "You had plenty to say when you had somebody standing behind you."

She stared at his boots instead of answering. Dirt in the seams. A split lace. Small details she could hold without seeing Edrik reach for her again.

The bond was still there. She could feel him, but feeling him alive was not the same as knowing he was safe. She had watched his legs fail beneath him. She couldn’t let that be the last thing she knew.

"I asked for help," she said. "You heard me ask for help."

"And here you are."

Dove swallowed the answer that would have felt wonderful and achieved nothing. Her hip throbbed. The shortened weight of her tail felt wrong behind her, and she had scraped both knees through the dust.

"Can I have some water?"

The transport man held out his bottle. Rusk took it before she could reach him, looked at the remaining water, then passed it over. She broke eye contact before he could decide her thirst was a game.

She checked the bottle’s open neck and took a small drink. Warm water, plastic taste, no obvious smell beyond that. She had sealed water in her own storage. She wanted them to believe this was the only drink she could get.

"There a bathroom?" she asked.

"You can wait."

"I’ve already thrown up once today. If you want me doing it on your shoes, keep talking."

The man at the gate snorted, then pretended he had coughed. Dove pressed the bottle against her mouth so Rusk wouldn’t see her tiny, deeply inappropriate spark of satisfaction.

She could still do that. She was still in here.

Rusk caught her elbow and pulled her upright. Pain caught in her hip, and her breath escaped before she could swallow it. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"Not so difficult now, are you?"

Dove looked directly at him. "My knee’s bleeding. I need to wash it."

Her voice came out soft. Softer than she felt. Resting Sweet Face, the stupidly named reward she had wanted to mock, made the man by the office look away from her scraped legs with a small, uncomfortable frown.

It didn’t make Rusk kinder. He already knew exactly what he wanted to think about her.

So that doesn’t work on everybody, she told Sprout.

It improves an impression. It doesn’t replace a personality.

Can I return his?

That service is not available.

Rusk guided her toward the office. She counted eight steps to the door, more because it gave her something useful to do than because eight meant anything. Hot asphalt gave way to damp carpet. The entrance hall was narrow, with a corkboard on one wall and a cracked clock on the other. A room on the left held a long table, mismatched chairs, and kitchen cabinets. Straight ahead, another hallway led toward daylight and a metal building behind the office.

She smelled old coffee, dirty mop water, and something fried. Food existed here. Electricity did too, judging by the fan turning above the table. This wasn’t a starving camp that had panicked. These men had decided they were entitled to more.

"Sit," Rusk said.

Dove chose the chair nearest the doorway rather than the one he shoved out with his foot. It was a small choice, but it was hers. From there she could see the front entrance and the hallway behind him.

"Someone going back for my beast husband?"

Rusk opened his mouth, but a second voice cut across the room.

"Leave the girl alone, Rusk. You’ve done enough."

A man in a clean, pale shirt stood in the rear doorway. His boots were polished. In a building that smelled like wet carpet, he smelled faintly of shaving cream.

He drew an unlit cigar from his shirt pocket and set it between his lips. The end was already dark and wet. Dove watched him roll it against his teeth while he studied her torn clothes, her bloodied knees, and the bottle she held with both hands. His expression changed in a way Dove didn’t like at all.

Rusk let go of the chair.

The new man smiled at her, then looked back at him. "From here on, she answers to me."