Page 61 of What a Wolf Demands

She drew in a shuddering breath. Yeah, her father probably wouldn’t have been impressed with the mess she’d made of her life.

But she was alive. Currently, at least. And she intended to stay that way. She sure as hell wasn’t going to let Luc Thibeaux decide her fate.

Something wet splatted on her face. She scrubbed at her cheek.

Another splat.

Rain.

Even as she thought it, huge drops pummeled the ground, raising miniature geysers of dirt. She’d lived in the bayou long enough to know a deluge was seconds away. If she wanted to stay dry, she needed to move—fast.

Wish me luck, Dad.

She sank into a crouch, took a deep breath, and slipped around the corner of the house. The basement entrance was there, exactly as she’d described it to Dom. A flimsy latch was bolted to the wood, an open padlock dangling from the cast iron. That wasn’t unusual. Levesque didn’t have to worry about intruders. Anyone stupid enough to sneak into a mansion full of werewolves deserved what they got.

With that cheery thought in mind, she hurried to the door and pulled it open. The wood creaked, making her cringe and bite her lip. Behind her, lightning flashed. The rain picked up, peppering her head and shoulders. She held the door just wide enough to duck inside, scraping her upper arms in the process.

Shallow stone steps led straight down. Probably should have warned Dom about those. Hopefully he hadn’t sprained an ankle as soon as he stepped inside.

Although, that was the least of their worries.

Holding the door, she turned and eased it shut. Immediately, she was plunged into darkness. If she’d been a pure-blooded wolf, she could have drawn on her inner beast’s ability to see in the dark. As it was, she was stuck standing in the stairwell, blinking rapidly as she waited for her eyes to adjust.

After a second, faint shapes emerged from the gloom. The outline of the steps appeared—rough-hewn rock carved more than a century ago, the middle part dipped in the center from thousands of feet taking the same path into the basement.

There was no handrail, just stone walls and a ceiling so low she had to duck her head. She went slowly, feeling for each step with her toes. The smell of damp and old wood filled her lungs. There were other smells, too, but they were more subtle—the type of scents that sunk into your bones and took hold of your soul. They were the smells of sorrow, of tears and human misery. It was as if the toil and tragedy of the people who’d worked the plantation had seeped into the very walls, leaving ghosts that could never be scrubbed away.

She kept going, every nerve on high alert for the slightest sound or movement.

But there was nothing—not even the typical basement sounds of dripping water or knocking pipes.

Instead, a muffled silence pervaded the space, as if someone had filled it with cotton.

Heart in her throat, she trained her gaze on the bottom step, ready to draw the gun at the first sign of a wolf. It had been several years since she’d been inside the mansion, and she’d only seen the basement once, when her fourth grade class took a field trip to the Alpha’s home. Giggling and shoving, she and several other students had dared each other to stand inside the prison cell.

It had seemed fun at the time, probably because she’d never imagined the possibility of ending up inside it for real.

Her eyes adjusted more . . . or was that a grayish patch of light at the base of the steps? She stared at it, more sweat snaking down her back and soaking into her waistband. Absently, she hoped it didn’t loosen the gun. That’s what she got for wearing a freaking sweater in the middle of summer.

As she reached the last few steps, the grayish light grew brighter. Now she could make out the stone floor, its surface worn and uneven. The unsettling quiet persisted. If the pack was really holding Bart prisoner, wouldn’t they have stationed a guard or two in the basement? Most people couldn’t go long without making some kind of noise, even if it was just shuffling their feet against the ground. The absolute silence was odd. Unnerving.

Unnatural.

She stopped on the last step and leaned into the stone. The stairway was built into the basement’s rear wall, which meant she was hidden from view as long as she stayed on the step. Rounding the corner meant exposing herself to anyone who might be present.

Where was everyone?

More importantly, where was Dom?

A nightmare scene played out in her brain—a bunch of brawny loup-garou surrounding him, then dragging him upstairs to the main house. Levesque was weak, especially when the pack’s prominent families pressured him to act. Luc hadn’t lied all those weeks ago in the bar. The Thibeaux family were powerful Finders, and they enjoyed wealth and influence as a result. If Luc demanded Bart’s head, Levesque might just order it.

He’d be much more reluctant to do the same to Dom. But that didn’t mean he’d stop his wolves from roughing up the New York Beta—especially if he suspected Dom of trying to spring Bart from prison on a rescue mission.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to erase the disturbing images from her mind. She never should have asked Dom to travel to Bon Rêve. In retrospect, her request seemed hasty and ill-planned. Now she was alone in the pack’s basement, and both he and Bart were nowhere to be found.

A low, pained groan echoed through the basement.

Lily jerked to attention, her heart racing.

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