Page 40 of What a Wolf Demands

He’d told her to hide in the closet.

Lily stood halfway between the bed and the bedroom’s double doors, indecision swirling in her mind.

It was probably unwise to disobey Dom’s orders, but she didn’t have much choice. She’d heard Luc’s voice among the masculine murmurs in the hall.

A shiver streaked down her spine.

What if Dom betrayed her? She’d given him nothing but trouble. It would be easy for him to simply hand her over to Luc and his thugs. She wasn’t going to make it easier by crouching in the closet like a sitting duck.

Her gaze went to the dresser where he’d hidden the gun. It was her one ace in the hole—the only escape route she had if things went south.

Because she wasn’t going back to Bon Rêve. Not now, not ever. She’d never used a gun. Had never even held one. But she had no qualms about pointing one at Luc if it meant gaining her freedom.

Deep voices drifted from the main room.

She crept to the double doors, which were open just enough to let a narrow sliver of light show against the carpet. She stopped and put her ear to one of the panels.

“Why don’t you just tell us where she is?” Luc’s voice was arrogant as usual, but there was something else in it . . . a quality she’d never heard before. At least not from him.

Nerves.

He was nervous.

Dom replied in a low rumble, his tone even and confident. “As I told you, gentlemen, as soon as I’ve secured Ms. Agincourt, I’ll contact your Alpha and let him know we’re headed to Bon Rêve.”

Lily released a breath, relief making her light-headed. He’d kept his word. He wasn’t going to just toss her to them like a hunk of meat to a bunch of sharks.

There was a muffled sound, like feet shuffling on carpet. She strained to hear through the door, her gaze on the ribbon of light on the carpet.

“I heard you’re supposed to be some kinda expert Hunter,” Luc said, his accent thick. His voice grew more distant, as if he’d turned around or spoken over his shoulder. “Ain’t that what you heard, Paul?”

Paul Guyon. Lily’s blood went cold. Guyon was the son of Bon Rêve’s mayor. He was also one of the best Trackers in the Louisiana Territory. There was only one reason why Luc would have brought him.

To sniff her out.

But when Guyon answered, he didn’t sound like a Tracker who’d just cornered a target. If anything, he sounded like the hotel was the last place he wanted to be. “Sure, I’ve heard that, Luc.”

Luc didn’t seem to notice the reluctant quality in Guyon’s response. Instead, his voice became clear again—as if he’d faced forward—and it held the same arrogant slant as before. “Some expert.” He sniffed. “Far as I can tell, the only thing you’ve hunted down is dinner.”

Lily bit her lip. For Luc, it wasn’t a half-bad insult.

“Tell me,” he went on, “what does a sneak need with all this food, anyway?”

Oh no. “Sneak” was the worst insult for a Telepath—like calling someone a thief. The stupid thing was, every wolf over the age of ten knew it wasn’t accurate. Telepaths didn’t steal anyone’s thoughts or seize control of other people’s minds. That sort of belief was akin to medieval humans thinking Thor was responsible for thunder, or that toothaches came from “bad humors” in the blood.

But wolves like Luc didn’t care about facts or accuracy. They just wanted to wound.

Lily tensed, waiting for Dom to explode.

But there was only silence.

What was going on? Maybe she’d missed his response. Her hearing was about as good as a human’s. She inched closer to the gap between the doors.

Luc spoke again. “What? Nothing to say?” His voice held a touch of frustration—and what might have been desperation. As if he wasn’t getting the result he wanted.

She crept closer to the gap, little beads of sweat forming on her upper lip. Shadows moved across the sliver of light on the floor.

“Tell you what, sneak,” Luc said, a sneer in his tone, “when you finally get around to tracking that cunt down, you don’t call Levesque. You call me.”

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