Twenty miles from Trevor's den.
The room was hot, too pungent, so hot he could hardly draw in a breath without scalding his lungs. It was small and had no windows or ventilation other than a small hole up near the ceiling. Most of the time, they kept a bright light on him, forcing him to stand for days, beating him when he toppled to the floor or just plain sat down out of defiance—well, more necessity than defiance, but they didn’t see it that way.
Tim had been there for days now, with no end in sight. Alone. Always alone. Sometimes they brought in others and tormented them—he could hear the howls and the noises of barbarity, the screams, usually in another language—and he was certain he was the only werewolf hostage they had. It was possibly the reason they didn’t kill him.
He wasn’t
