For several minutes, I did nothing more than simply lie there, willing my head to stop pounding even as I wondered where the hell I was.
But as awareness of my surroundings grew stronger, I discovered that not only was I in a bed and naked, but I was spread-eagle, with my hands and feet tied.
What the hell was going on?
My first thought—naturally enough—was that I'd been raped, but I had no sense of violation. It didn't feel like anyone had abused me in any way other than tying me. My body did ache, but I suspected it was more a residue of whatever magic had knocked me out rather than someone having forced themself on me.
Of course, no one ever had, so how could I be so certain that it hadn't happened? God, the way I was tied certainly suggested that even if it hadn't happened, it was very much in the cards. It was a thought that should have frightened me, but all it actually did was make me mad. Werewolves had a free and easy attitude when it came to sex, but force was an entirely different matter—and one that was not dealt with lightly. Fortunately, it was something that rarely happened among werewolves. But then, rape was rarely about sex and all about either gaining power over—or causing degradation to—another person.
Who the hell would wish either of those on me?
Even as the thought hit, the answer came. Lucian.
Touch not, Amaya said, her sharp voice cutting like razor blades through my brain. Tried.
Lucian?
Him, she spat. Tried to slice it off. Missed.
I blinked. As statements went, that was pretty dramatic, and it was one that had just a touch of amusement vibrating through me. At least I'd had a defender when I was unconscious.
It was just a damn shame that she'd missed.
I very much wanted to open my eyes and see where the hell I was, but caution prevailed. Until I had some sense of what was going on around me, it was better that Lucian thought I was still unconscious.
There was little in the way of movement or sound—other than the nearby rumble of traffic—to indicate there was anyone close, but the air was thick with the scent of dust and mold and age. Wherever we were, it wasn't Lucian's apartment. But he was here. His scent—lemongrass, suede, and musky, powerful male—was a strong undercurrent to the other scents.
So why wasn't Azriel here, ripping Lucian's head off his fucking shoulders?