Forget Him Not (The Hellfire Vampires Bloodline Book 3) by Jae T. Jaggart

Author:Jae T. Jaggart [Jaggart, Jae T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-08-11T23:00:00+00:00

revenge, eaten hot or cold

The wine cellar beneath the nineteen-thirties house had been turned into holding cells, row upon row of floor to ceiling bars. The space reeked of damp earth, concrete, and terror.

But they’d found Ceiran.

Grisha caught a glimpse of him, caged, in the shadowed end of the space. Beams ran across the ceiling. He was strung up, by the ankles, bound to them by leather cuffs and ropes, arms dangling, hands almost brushing the floor.

He didn’t react at the noise of them entering the space. He was probably drained too far.

They were being herded towards a couple of cells. Grisha had Easton in a fireman’s hold, slung over his shoulder. He seemed to weigh pitifully little, as if the weight was not peeling off him day by day but hour by hour.

The alpha of the guards paused, lifted his semi-automatic a degree. His amber eyes flickered over the two men, then Zherdev and Arkady. His laugh raked at Grisha’s skin.

It made him want to kill.

“Your boyfriend’s not looking too healthy. You really are love’s lucky charm, aren’t you, Grisha? First that spectacular piece of ass, Galina, and now this one. One already underground and him—” The gun was waved. “Not far off it.”

“Just get us in the damned cells and get out,” Grisha spat.

The two of them had grown up together. At one point, a very, very long time ago, they’d been friends.

But that had been then. And this was now, and the man was wholly his father’s puppet.

His choice. And Grisha’s choice as to whether or not he’d tear his throat out once he had the opportunity.

He knew which it would be.

The guy slapped a hand on his nape and shoved him in the direction of the cell.

~~***~~

Easton drifted in and out of consciousness.

Problem was, the dreamworld was better than the concrete and steel one about him.

Déjà vu. Yeah, that was it. On the borderline of wakefulness, he had a memory of the last time he’d been caged up: at the Siberian headquarters for the pack Viktor Vasiliev had once led. That compound had burnt down.

But Grisha and he, together with Roark and Nix, had been caged in cells beneath the beautiful mansion that had concealed so many secrets. He’d still had his powers then. And Grisha had used them. And his own. Shifter powers that not even his father had guessed at.

Easton was hit by a wrenching fear.

Unlike the Siberian compound, these cells did not possess a spartan bunk, a sink. He was lying on a concrete floor and the electric light felt weak to his eyes. It was icily cold. Every muscle and bone ached.

Without moving, he yelled, “Grisha?”

“Taken. To see his father, I’m guessing. But alive,” came the sardonic reply. Zherdev. “All of us, alive.”

“Good,” Easton croaked.

“No thanks to your driving. From now on, little shit, you’re a backseat passenger.”

Easton gave a huff of laughter. It hurt. But Grisha—

He had hazed, hallucinogenic memories of that drive through Paris. It was amazing that they were still alive.

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