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Oh yeah, she was going to feel guilty about that one. Next year maybe.
“She’s not going to help you, Phillip,” Jonas warned him, and Mica wanted to just laugh.
It was the pain, it was making her crazy, and Cassie wasn’t here to bitch at because of it.
“Cassie Sinclair’
s self-proclaimed best friend?” Phillip’s snarl sounded like a Breed’s. “Your little princess’s favorite person, Wyatt? You’d trade your own sire for her.”
“No doubt,” Jonas drawled with a facade of amusement. “She likes me more.”
And wasn’t that the damned truth.
“Does she now?” Sardonic, manipulating, Phillip Brandenmore sounded like a monster ready to bite her head off. A chill raced up her spine as the ragged nails caressed her jugular. “Would she like you so well if she knew you’d deliberately allowed her to go home? That you’d been warned she would be targeted?”
“Too late,” Mica wheezed. “Already knew.”
God, she had to get his arm off her ribs before she blacked out for good. She could barely breathe. This was even worse than having Navarro lying over her in the back of the SUV.
Brandenmore laughed at the pain in her voice. “Did you know I was here, little girl?”
“Nightmares,” she gasped.
Brandenmore paused. “What did you say?”
Was there a lessening of the dementia in his tone? In the pressure against her ribs. Oh God, what had she said to make him think? She would surely say it again.
“You’re hurting her, Phillip, is that what you want?” Jonas asked then, his voice dropping, softening.
Those ragged nails caressed over her neck again, scraping, feeling as though they were peeling the protective layer of skin from her flesh.
“Do you have nightmares?” He was tense behind her, and so strong. His fingers were clenching in her hair, unclenching, pulling at the tender strands as her knees threatened to buckle.
His nails scraped her flesh again as she blinked against the tears.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t inhale deeply. Her ribs felt as though a dagger were wedged between them.
“Answer me!” he roared.
Mica whimpered at the pain. She couldn’t cry, she couldn’t scream. There was no breath for it, the pain screaming through her body.
“Do you have nightmares?”
“Yes,” she wheezed, her hands jerking from the wall to the powerful wrists of the creature holding her so effortlessly.
He was Phillip Brandenmore, yet he wasn’t.
God, Kita Engalls, his niece, must live in hell knowing what her uncle had become.
“What nightmares do you have?” He seemed to pause, his nails now digging into the flesh of her neck as another little whimper slipped free.
Behind Brandenmore, she could hear Navarro growling. That low, almost unconscious growl Wolf Breeds used when pushed to their last, enraged nerve.
If Bradenmore gave him so much as a single opening, then he would be dead.
“Monsters,” she answered, fighting back more tears, fighting back the fear and the panic, the knowledge that she would die if one of the Breeds didn’t figure out how to get their hands, or their weapons, on the monster holding her. “Monsters find me.”
It was the truth. That was her nightmare, a dream pulled from the bleak, horrifying night she’d spent lost in the mountains around the ranch her parents had owned in Kansas, just after Cassie and her mother had been there with Dash Sinclair.
