ROSETTE’S POV
The door was unlocked. Of course it was. Arthur wanted me inside. Wanted me trapped.
I stepped through into darkness so complete it felt solid, my wolf’s eyes adjusting slowly to reveal the outline of machinery, of crates, of support pillars thick with rust.
The air smelled like salt and rot and something chemical that made my nose burn.
And blood. Fresh blood.
I followed the scent through the maze of abandoned equipment until I reached the center of the warehouse, and there she was.
Lindsey Meyers, strapped to a metal chair with zip ties cutting into her wrists and ankles.
C4 packed across her chest and stomach in blocks that looked almost innocuous, like gray modeling clay, except for the wires connecting them to a detonator clutched in Arthur Vance’s trembling hand.
