Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven #1) by J.R. Ward

Family. Background. Beliefs.

Girlfriends.

Wife.

“I really have to get a life,” she muttered.





The Black Dagger Brotherhood Mansion

Caldwell, NY

FUCK!”

Xhex, beloved shellan of the Black Dagger Brother John Matthew, shot upright in bed and grabbed the center of her chest. Yanking at what was covering her, she tore her way down past the duvet and the sheets, and when she came to her naked skin, she clawed at her—

Big, broad hands captured hers, and as she blinked, she didn’t see her mate. She saw a man, a human, in a white lab coat, taking control of her body, pushing her down, so he could put a hypodermic needle in her—

The scream that came out of her shattered the dim quiet of their bedroom, and her panic took over. She fought hard, kicking with her feet, bucking her body, twisting under the iron bars locked on her wrists. Baring her fangs, she struck at the forearm, at the bare bicep, at anything that came close, blood flowing into her mouth, onto her naked breasts.

She was going to lose this battle. She always lost. No matter how hard she tried to fight, sooner or later, she was overpowered and at the mercy of the white coats, of the experiments, of the torture.

A raw sob broke free of her throat. “Nooooooooo—”

The whistle was high pitched and ascending, an audible flare that rose in volume and octave until it owned the air around her, surrounding her and penetrating through the incendiary terror.

Xhex paused her battle, her hoarse breath still tearing up and down her throat. “John?” she said in a whisper.

That whistle repeated in precisely the same cadence and pitch, a slow ascension that went from low to high. And that was when the veil lifted from her eyes and she could see properly the male facing her.

John Matthew was exactly as he always was, from his dark hair to his blue eyes, his strong face and his wide shoulders.

“Motherfucker,” she moaned. “Oh, God, what have I done to you …”

He was bleeding from bites all over his arms, the drips staining the sheets red, the horror from the nightmare being replaced with the horror that she had hurt him. Again.

“I’ll get a towel—I’ll get some towels—”

As she went to pull away, he tugged at her wrists. Then he mouthed, I’m fine. I’m okay.

“No, no, no, no …”

This time, when she tried to take her hands back, he let her go—and she fell out of the bed, landing in a heap on the rug. Before he could help her, she thrashed her legs around and jumped up to her feet. As she lurched for the bathroom, one of her ankles was killing her. She must have knocked it on the mattress frame.

Like she fucking cared.

Their bathroom was across the way, and she felt like it took a hundred miles of flat-out running to get to it—and as she stubbed her toe on the lip of the marble floor, she caught the door and slammed it shut by mistake.

The light in the shower’s bright white expanse had been left on, so as she went to the sinks, its illumination flooded from behind her—and turned her into a ghost with substance, nothing but a black outline of a figure.

Her hands were shaking so badly that cranking the faucets was like brain surgery, and when she finally got the water running, she didn’t wait for the warmth to come up the pipes. She cupped her palms and splashed her face.

The fact that the dark wine taste of her mate’s blood was still in her mouth shamed her to the point of nausea—and just in case, she glanced over to the alcove where the toilet was.

Yeah, she could make it. If she had to.

Her legs felt better.

More with the water. Splash. Splash. Splash.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in that lab, and not in a memory kind of way. As in, she was actually there, in her body, trapped and being worked on by humans.

The cool water was good, but the fact that she shut her lids every time she made the round with her palms was making things worse. She needed to reground in this reality.

In the real reality, that was. Splash. Splash. Splash.

As she finally turned off the water, the dripping into the basin was a soft sound, almost a chiming, and she threw out a hand and patted around, hoping to run into a towel. When she felt some softness, she pulled it over and pushed her face into the terry cloth folds. Then she swept them up and over her nearly shaved head, rubbing, as if that would somehow scrub away the remnants of the trauma.

That was when she heard the voices. Out in the bedroom.

Goddamn it.

See, this was the good news and the bad news about living in the mansion with the Brotherhood. You were never alone when you were in the house … but you were never alone when you were in the house.

Taking the towel with her, she went to the closed door and leaned into the wooden panels.

“—sure you’re both okay.”

That was Qhuinn, which made sense. Qhuinn and Blay’s bedroom was next door—oh, shit. Off in the distance, she could hear the high-pitched howl of a young who had been roused from what had been blissful sleep in its crib.

Great. She draws blood on her hellren, wakes up the neighbors, and scares the shit out of an infant.

There was some silence as John signed whatever response he had. And then Qhuinn was murmuring things about getting help for days like this. Days when Xhex woke up in a fit from a recurrent nightmare that hadn’t been happening anymore.