Pursuing My Rejected Luna by Cara Anderson novel Chapter 203

Chapter 203

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Shivers wrack my body as I sit here in my concrete cell. Though if from the cold and dank of the room or the fever from my rising heat, I’m not sure. It’s miserable but I just keep reminding myself I’ve been through worse. I’m not sure when, but I’m clinging to the lie like a lifeline right now.

At least my captors have left me alone, keeping to their orders I’m not to be touched. It can’t be easy, given my scent has become so potent it could choke a horse. I guess I should be thankful. Small favors and all that.

Just as I’m making some progress convincing myself I might survive this after all, the door to my room opens. The man who enters is not one of the rough operatives who drug me here. It’s not any of the men I’ve been expecting at all.

This man is even more polished than Volkov. Gray-templed in the way that makes him look distinguished but not aged. His suit is tailored and his shoes are shined to a high gloss, which tells me something about how far he is from the work his people do. He carries a folding chair in with him and sets it up across from where I’m sitting on the floor with the particular care of someone who considers himself civilized regardless of the circumstances he

creates.

I’ve met men like this before. Men who delegate violence and consider themselves clean because of it. My father taught me this lesson early on, the man who doesn’t get his hands dirty is more dangerous than the one who does. Because he’s had time to think.

He sits, leaning back in his chair with one foot resting on the opposite knee, the picture of carefree and collected. His eyes roam from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, not lingering anywhere for very long. And despite my cloying scent, his nostrils don’t so much as twitch. It doesn’t stop the hairs from standing up on my arms or the feeling of unease that slinks warily through my gut.

“Skye Vale,” he addresses me in a deep, raspy tone. “Or Winters, I suppose, given the divorce. Or is it Woolf now? I don’t actually know if you took your new husband’s name. So hard to keep track. You’ve had rather a complicated year.”

I don’t respond. I get the feeling he’s far more interested in hearing himself talk than anything I have to say. And unlike his lackeys, he’s the man with the plan. Time will tell if he’s arrogant enough to share it with me.

“Petyr Savin,” he says. “Since we haven’t been introduced.”

He doesn’t wait for me to acknowledge the introduction. Just continues to explain himself with the manner of a man presenting a business case.

“You’re here because your mate has something I want returned.” He tells me. “The Woolf family acquired a territory from mine twelve years ago. Nikolai Woolf’s father managed the transaction in a way I found” He | considers the word. “Inequitable. I’ve been patient. I’ve been willing to negotiate. The current head of the Woolf

family has been unwilling to acknowledge the situation exists. In fact, he’s been most immoveable.” He folds his hands. “Imagine my surprise when the man with the heart of stone married for love of all things. Now, I find you’re the most efficient way to restart that conversation.”

I look straight at him. Not at the chair, not at the door behind him. At him. Refusing to cower. Cataloging instead.

He’s maybe sixty. Fit for his age but not a fighter-his hands don’t have the particular quality of hands that have done close work. He leans forward when he talks, which is a habit that creates an opportunity. He brought the chair close, which means he expected conversation, which means he underestimates how I’ll respond to confinement.

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The drug is wearing off. Not completely-my wolf is present but distant, the shift still suppressed. But my limbs are mine again. My hands, though tied, have been working at the restraints since I woke up. The angle of the bading has a weakness I’ve been slowly exploiting.

I wait, watching him carefully, waiting for the perfect moment. He leans forward to make his point. I move.

My bound wrists go over his head before he’s registered what’s happening-the loop of the restraint fightening at his throat, my weight behind it. I’ve been sitting on the floor and I come up with everything I have, ignoring the pins and needles shooting through my legs.

He’s stronger than he looks. But I had surprise and I had positioning and for approximately four seconds I have a genuine advantage.

He gets his hands under the restraint. Pulls. I brace, trying to hold the pressure, but he’s a full Alpha with decades of experience and I’m restrained and drugged and he has leverage I don’t. He wins.

I’m back against the wall with his hands at my arms, his breathing harder than it was-satisfyingly harder-and the chair knocked sideways. For a moment he just looks at me like I’m some riddle he can’t solve.

“That,” he says, “was unexpected.”

He sounds, to my fury, genuinely amused. Though the aggressive way he retightens my restraints suggest otherwise. He doesn’t hit me but the new configuration communicates clearly: don’t try that again. My wrists are behind me now instead of in front, the progress I’d made on the binding gone.

“Luna Woolf,” he says, settling back. “I see you’re not going to make this easy.”

“No,” I say. It’s the only word I give him. Now or later.

He asks his questions. Some of which I genuinely don’t know how to answer, but I refuse to either way.

“Tell me about the eastern alliance structure. Which packs are genuinely committed and which are maintained through Woolf pressure?” He fires off question after question. “Who would defect if offered the right incentive? What are the Woolf family’s trade route vulnerabilities?”

I just look at the wall behind his left shoulder, my chin held high but not sparing him so much as a glance.

“You’ve been living in that house for over a year,” he snarls. “You attend the business meetings. You work with his Betai on administrative correspondence. You know exactly what I’m asking about.” He pauses. “Your silence is itself informative. It tells me you know.”

I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be some psychological tactic all corrupt men are taught at some school for the criminally minded but it doesn’t work. I still say nothing.

He’s quiet for a moment, followed by a beleaguered sigh. Then he explains what happens if I don’t speak.

He talks about what my presence here communicates to Nicolai – what Nicolai will be willing to accept to get me back unharmed-and what changes about that offer if unharmed is no longer the descriptor.

“You have more to protect than your mate’s business interests,” he warns. “What would you do to protect those under your care? Those who can’t protect themselves?”

If he was going for cryptic, he misses the mark. I’ve no doubt he’s referring to Benji. He’s threatening my son.

He doesn’t elaborate, just lets the implication sit. Then he stands, picks up the chair, and moves toward the door.

“I’ll give you an hour. Think carefully. The answer I’m looking for is not complicated.” He states calmly, before

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walking out and leaving me alone once again.

The door closes behind him. I count his footsteps on the stairs. And when they’re gone, I close my eyes and breathe.

Think, I tell myself. Think. Don’t feel, think.

My heat is building-the warmth under my skin growing hotter, the sensitivity to touch that has nothing to do with the cold floor or the stone walls. My body, indifferent to circumstances, is slowly betraying me

Nicolai, Jaxon, I think their names loudly in my head. They’ll know something is wrong. They’ll notice.

I need to still be here, in condition to be rescued, when they do.

Cara Anderson

Author

Thank you for reading!

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