“Stay here and keep guard. Can you do that, little one?”
There was a tense pause, then she gave a jerky nod. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Ignoring the irrational reluctance to leave her alone, Jagr loosened his grip and stepped back. This possessive sense of protection toward Regan was not only dangerous, it was distracting.
A warrior needed to be cold and logical, a master of his emotions.
This fermenting fear for Regan’s safety could make him sloppy.
And sloppy meant death.
Ignoring his unwelcome instincts, Jagr stepped onto the rough path and approached the RV. Nearing the door, he withdrew a dagger from his boot. His senses might tell him the vehicle was empty, but he knew better than to walk in blindly. The curs had already proven they could hide their presence behind a spell. He wasn’t taking chances.
Circling the long motor home, he cautiously peered through the windows. Empty. Unless the curs also managed to become invisible.
At last, Jagr approached the door, wrapping himself in shadows as he threw it open and flowed silently inside. He crouched low, prepared for attack. When one didn’t occur, he straightened and allowed his gaze to slide over the built-in kitchen and living room that were crammed into the small space.
It all looked…
Human.
Not at all the lavish lifestyle preferred by imps.
Of course, Regan had claimed that Culligan was weak. If he couldn’t produce hexes or portals, then he would have to depend on other means to acquire his wealth.
Such as abusing a vulnerable young Were in his sick sideshow.
With a low growl, Jagr moved toward the back of the RV, already knowing what he would discover when he yanked open the door to the bedroom.
Knowing, however, and seeing were two very different things.
The small room was surrounded by pure silver bars. The walls, the ceiling, the windows, and even the inside of the door. Even worse, there were silver shackles and chains tossed on a narrow cot that was the only piece of furniture, beyond a tiny TV and shelf of worn books.
This is where Regan had lived for the past thirty years. Where she’d been raised by a brutal master, and abused on a regular basis.
Had she been forced to wear the shackles whenever she was in this room?
The corrosive burn would have been near unbearable, and would have weakened her to the point where she could barely function.
Cold, lethal fury seared through him.
Someone would pay for this.
In blood.
Lost in his dark thoughts, it was the scent of jasmine that had him abruptly turning and heading back to the front of the vehicle.
“Regan. Do not,” he rasped, his voice thickening with his native accent as he watched her climb through the door.
Sick fear swirled about her, filling the narrow space, but her beautiful face was hard with determination.
“I have to see.”
“If there’s anything to discover, I will find it. There’s no need for you…”
“There’s every need, Jagr,” she interrupted, her voice low and ragged.