As her blurred vision began to clear, Hannah pulled herself upright, her fingers grazing the rough woollen sheets covering her aching body. As she moved her head to look around a sharp pain shot through her neck and she let out an involuntary gasp. The sound echoed strangely around her and she reached up to clasp the source of the pain in her hand, the skin throbbing when she touched it.

What happened? The forest... The rain... Amara! She tried to lift herself off the bed but her legs refused to cooperate, shaking violently when she tried to put her weight on them. Her head felt woozy, like her thoughts were running through tar, and she couldn't remember...

She looked up, her heart quickening as her mind valiantly fought the haze to remind her of the strong arms that had grabbed her, pinning her down from behind. She almost gagged as she remembered the stench of the filthy hands that had held her while they injected her with... something.

Where the hell was she?

Her eyes refused to cooperate. Squeezing the lids shut, she blinked rapidly trying to clear away the lingering fuzziness. Confusion washed over her as her eyes flickered about a small room, windowless, undecorated and with thick stone walls that loomed over her bed, closing her in from all sides.

An artificial light from a small lamp in the corner cast deep shadows across the exposed stone, masking the size of the cell with large swathes of inky darkness. So engrossed in her examination was she, that it took her a few moments to realise she wasn't alone.

He sat by the only escape route, perfectly still. His eyes so black they looked like voids in the hollows of his head, his clothes blending in to the darkness as though he belonged there. A shadow blending into shadows, come to torment her dreams.

The man in black.

Her eyes locked on to his and she recognised him instantly. She doubted she’d ever forget his face. The look of vicious pleasure he'd worn as he stalked towards her in the hospital was absent, but she vividly remembered how he'd held the blade in his hand, dripping fresh blood upon the tiles on the floor.

Her first reaction was one of understandable panic.

Eyes darting around the room for another escape, she scrambled off the bed, half-stumbling as her legs protested the sudden movement. Retreating as far from his still form as she could, she pressed her back firmly into the wall.

There was nowhere to go and, engulfed by her moment of fear, she rejoiced in the feel of the rough grain of the rock scraping against her skin, as though it could somehow protect her from her nightmare. Desperately, she willed her uncooperative body to perform a miracle and sink into the solid stone behind her.

He’d tried to kill her.

She always knew he would come back for her. Irrationally, she wondered what had taken him so long. Had he been biding his time, waiting for his chance had to finish what he'd started? Well, here it was and this time, she was helpless to stop him.

Her panic increased and she felt a cold sweat wash over her as her breathing sped up. Any second now, she'd feel the keen slice of his blade against her throat and it would all be over. She turned her face away, her ears straining for the tell-tale footsteps heading towards her.

Then, after several minutes of uncharacteristic cowering, her still befuddled mind began to shake off the remnants of the drug in her system and question the logic behind her conviction.

Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping someone if your intention is to murder them? If he'd wanted to kill her, he would have had plenty of opportunities out in the forest. Taking a deep and steadying breath, she risked a second, cautious look at her captor.

He hadn't moved.

Her confusion increased and she warily allowed her eyes to drift again around the room, adjusting to the light and searching for answers, trying to ignore the jet black eyes watching with an unnerving intensity.

The walls were old. Ancient, even. Roughly hewn rock slabs, with years and years of erosion behind them, decorated liberally with moss. Someone recently had attempted to remove the worst of the ivy and other climbing plants crawling between the crevices, leaving behind echoes of life in an elaborate pattern of skeletal imprints up each wall.

The floor had been scrubbed clean and old rugs laid over the flagstones to form a mishmash of carpet and the furnishings were plain and functional. The most recent edition appeared to be the a basic wooden door that blocked her view of the outside world.

The proportions were tiny, clearly designed to house just one person. Maybe it had always been used as a prison cell? Acutely aware there was only so long she could feign interest in the bland surroundings, her reluctant gaze drifted back towards the man in black.

His eyes were darker than she remembered. The golden shine dimmed by the flickering light, but still glowing like the dying embers of a fire. Unlike the mad rogue she'd encountered by the lake, there was no hint of red in his piercing eyes, just a glimmer of faint amusement as he watched her, watching him.

“How's your neck?” he asked her, solicitously. His voice was the same harsh rasp she remembered from her dreams and the sound of it grated against her nerves, leaving her with gritted teeth.

She unconsciously raised her hand to her neck once again and scowled at him without answering. She hated needles.

“It could be worse,” he shrugged. “Usually we'd knock you out with a swift blow to the head. Simple, but effective. But, I figured you've already had enough of those for one lifetime, and I didn't want to risk damaging you further.”

Her scowl deepened and she stared at him, every muscle tensed to react to the slightest movement.

“You got a larger shot than I originally intended though,” he continued, “I’m afraid Berrik may have been a little over enthusiastic with the syringe.” His tone was light and matter-of-fact. He might as well have been having a casual conversation over dinner.

It irritated her, and something rose up inside of her in that moment. She couldn't explain it, but -- just like the spark of fire that had ignited within her at the socialites picnic – a grain of courage overpowered her panic. scoffing at her pathetic cowering, it drove her to straighten her back and let go of the illusion of safety the damp wall provided for her.

“Are you a coward?” she asked, fixing the still figure with a baleful glare, her Scottish lilt heightened by her distress.

His eyes rose in silent amusement. “Pardon?”

“Are you a coward?” she accused again, one trembling hand sweeping the tumble of red hair out of her eyes. “Why don't you just kill me now and get it over with?” She narrowed her eyes and made a show of looking him up and down, her eyes settling on the glimmer of a sharp blade poking out of his worn leather boot. “Or are you enjoying toying with me first? Do you want me to beg? To cower away from you like a frightened rabbit?”

His eyes glimmered in the lamplight, watching her every move. For some reason his lack of reaction irritated her, spurring her to take a step forward in reckless defiance.

“You might as well not bother,” she told him, her accent thick with supressed fear. “You'll get no more satisfaction from me. I'm not afraid of you!”

He smiled then. His lips stretching across his face in a predatory grin. “You are,” he disagreed. “But I enjoy your spirited attempt to convince me otherwise.”

“Well?” she asked, bracing herself. “Aren't you going to get on with it?”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you,” he said, the amusement in his voice increasing. “But, I have no intention of killing you, today.”

You don't? Then, why –? She shook her head, the red waves of hair tumbling to one side.

“I escaped you once, I can do it again!” she declared stubbornly, ignoring the sceptical voice in her head that insisted in pointing out she was no longer the wolf she'd once been.

He tilted his head to one side quizzically, the smile still playing around his face, but made no effort to disagree with her. “Have fun with that.” He shrugged. “But, you won't get far. You, my little red-haired hellion, are pay day... and I'm always extra attentive towards money.”

“You're a mercenary,” she gasped, hit by the sudden realisation that Asher had been right all along.

“I'm a business man,” he countered, his grin widening. “People pay me to do a job and I make sure that it isn't traced back to them. I'm very good at it,” he added thoughtfully.

“And who's paying you for this job?” she asked accusingly.

“Your Alpha, if he's as fond of you as I think he is,” he answered.

“No,” she argued, emboldened by her sudden revelation.

That doesn't make any sense.

“You couldn't have been targeting him when you came for me in the hospital. He barely knew me then, I was worth nothing to him... I'm still worth nothing to him," she added under her breath. "Besides,” she speculated. “You said it yourself, he wouldn't pay a penny for a corpse.”

“I did say that,” he agreed amiably, his eyes shining with amusement.

“And you were trying to kill me...”

“Was I?” he asked, tilting his head to the other side.

“Yes!” she answered sharply, her mind flashing back to the blade dripping with fresh blood. “I remember...”

What did she remember? The sharp edge of the blade. The grin on his face, his shining eyes. Him reaching for her. With a hand, she suddenly realised. Not the blade itself.

How easy would it have been for him to finish the job then and there before turning back to face Amara? Too easy, her mind told her.

“At least, I think you were?” she added, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

He merely smiled, studying her like an exhibit in a zoo. As if suddenly bored of their conversation, he stood up abruptly and it took all of her will power not to cower against the wall again.

“You know, you're far braver than I expected, Hannah... or is it Eleanor now?” he observed as he banged on the door. “But, if you really want to pull it off successfully, you're going to have to work on your little tell.”

Her... what?

The door creaked open and she caught a glimpse of a stone corridor, flickering lights and two ridiculously large guards before the man in black blocked her view.

“Your accent thickens when you're afraid,” he informed her. “It's very pretty to listen to, but it rather gives the game away I'm afraid.” His eyes narrowed in speculation. “A girl without a name... I think I'm going to call you Red,” he mused thoughtfully.

She swore at him.

“Much better,” he approved. “Now that I believed,” and he stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. She heard the bolt click into place.

After only a moments hesitation, Hannah found her legs and scrambled towards the door, eagerly pressing her ear against the grainy wood and straining to hear the muted conversation on the other side.

“ – no mistakes.” The voice of her captor drifted through the door, an edge to his voice that had been missing when he spoke to Hannah.

Someone replied with a guttural growl of a voice, so entwined with their wolf's that she could barely understand it. “When we gettin’ paid, Fenrik?”

“When it's over. Not before,” her captor snapped back, the irritation clear in his tone. “And lay off the damn liquor while you’re down here!” Footsteps receded along the corridor and the distant clang of a door announced his departure.

Hannah pulled back from the door a moment, her brow wrinkled.

So, the man in black's real name was Fenrik? she pondered. Where had she heard that name before?

The memory floated tantalisingly on the edge of her mind, flitting out of reach every time she tried to grasp hold of it. With a sigh of frustration she pressed her ear against the door once more, hoping to learn more.

She soon wished she hadn't.

Now Fenrik was safely out of earshot, the two rogues guarding her cell wasted no time opening a new bottle of whichever strong smelling alcohol rogues preferred. Far from providing her with any useful information, one of the guards quickly launched into a spirited discussion about their prisoner - crudely speculating on what she'd look like without her clothes on and using the filthiest language he could think of to describe the things he'd do to her if he had the chance. His companion grunted and rumbled his approval as they grew progressively drunker.

So much for Fenrik’s authority.

Feeling slightly sick, she swiftly withdrew, the spark of courage inside her fizzling out as she realised that, if they chose to act on their suggestions, she could do nothing to stop them.

The next hours were spent curled up in the shadows, as far from the light as she could get. Making herself as small as possible, she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the door, the occasional burst of raucous laughter keeping her on edge.

Eventually and inevitably, one of the rogues consumed enough alcohol to set caution aside and, in a moment of drunken lechery, he entered the tiny room.

His huge frame filled the doorway as he cast his eyes about the cell in search of her. For a moment, they registered confusion as he failed to locate her, but swiftly changed to a look of lustful cruelty once his bleary gaze focused on her tiny figure in the corner of the room.

She scrambled upwards, one hand clenched tightly around a long and rusty nail she'd retrieved from under the bed. It was a hopeless act of defiance, but she was damned if she was going to let him touch her without a fight.

As he weaved towards her, the stench of alcohol filled her nostrils and it took all her concentration not to gag as he closed in. Her eyes flickered to the open doorway – the second guard was nowhere to be seen, the empty corridor calling to her invitingly.

“Come ‘ere, girlie,” he leered. “Let's see what’s under them clothes.” He grasped her arm in a painful grip; pulling her towards him, his free hand already reaching for the front of her top.

“Get off me,” she hissed through gritted teeth and swung her arm around, sinking the nail deep into the hand that held her. A warm gush of blood washed over her fist, and he let go of her with a roar of furious surprise.

As he wrenched the nail from his hand, she attempted to dart around him towards the door, but he was too quick for her. Even with senses dulled by the effects of the alcohol. His eyes alight with fury, he blocked her path and raised one enormous fist, poised to strike her down.

She closed her eyes and braced herself for the blow...

But it never came. His descending fist was stopped mid-air, and she felt his claustrophobic presence being wrenched away from her, giving her room to breathe again.

Opening her eyes, she was startled to see her would-be attacker leaning half-naked against the opposite wall, his path back to her blocked by a snarling figure dressed all in in black.

Beyond the open door hovered the second guard, his passive face watching the scene with emotionless eyes.

In her panic, she'd failed to hear their approach.

Fenrik turned to stare at her, his eyes taking in her bloodied hand, the discarded nail on the floor and the still-bleeding wound on his guard. Then proceeded to react with a fury that would later give her the confidence to believe none of his men would be foolish enough to attempt to lay hands on her again, no matter how she provoked them.

He snarled at the still-swaying guard in a language Hannah did not understand, and she took no small measure of satisfaction watching the harsh crack of his words change the expression on the guard’s face from drunken indignation to one of sullen apprehension.

Throughout his verbal beating, the rogue kept his dark eyes lowered to the floor, a universal sign of submission throughout the werewolf world. Once, and only once, stung by one of Fenrik’s contemptuous reprimands, the guard drew himself up and snarled a reply.

Fenrik’s reaction was immediate and savage. He sent the man reeling back against the wall with a heavy blow of his fist, then lunged down at his exposed mid-drift.

Still staggering, the rogue could do nothing to prevent the wickedly sharp claw from piercing his abdomen and shrieked in agony as his tormentor ran it cruelly across his exposed belly.

The man doubled over sharply, falling to the stone floor with Fenrik's claws still embedded in the open wound. Fenrik watched him writhe for several endless minutes, his expression utterly merciless, before finally releasing him and retracting his claws.

“Now do you understand?” he demanded in a deadly voice.

“Y – yes,” whispered the stricken guard, still curled up into a foetal position on the floor.

“I'm sorry, I can't hear you,” Fenrik complained, taking a threatening step back towards his victim.

“Yes!” the guard half- shrieked, clutching his heavily bleeding stomach as he scrambled as far away from his tormentor as possible.

“Good,” Fenrik nodded in satisfaction. “Do not try my patience again. Next time, I won't be so quick to remove my claws.” He leaned forward, ignoring how the rogue shrank back from him. “Pain is like a disease, Nyko. A man can die from pain if you inflict it for long enough. Remember that, and don't force me to demonstrate it to you. Now, go and get fixed up, you're on watch tonight.”

After a moment of watching Nyko dramatically struggling to raise himself off the floor, Fenik sighed and rubbed one hand across his forehead. “Oh, get up,” he said with a modicum of disgust. “It's a flesh wound. Nothing more. If your wolf can't keep you on your feet long enough to fight back, what good are you to me? Help him, Berrik,” he ordered the other guard shortly.

The heavily muscled warrior pulled his unfortunate partner to his feet with one powerful arm and practically dragged him out into the corridor.

“And find someone to clean up this mess!” he yelled after them, one foot nudging the blood stained rugs where the rogue had lain.

Hannah observed him with narrow eyes, her mind reassessing her first impression of him. Clearly, even without the structure of a pack, these rogues recognised a strict hierarchy, one where Fenrik had clawed himself to the top.

“My apologies, Red.” He turned to Hannah with strangely remorseful eyes. “I gave strict instructions for you not to be harmed.”

“How kind of you,” she retorted sarcastically, the drying blood staining her hand, leaving her skin crawling with disgust. “I guess that one missed the memo.”