Phair awoke in a dingy room that looked like a large storage closet. Metal shelves lined the opposite wall, and one solitary lightbulb hung overhead, casting foreboding shadows in distant corners.

His vision was foggy, as though a cloud hung directly in front of his eyes, and to make matters worse, he felt like someone had stuffed a pound of wet cotton into his cheeks. For what felt like several minutes, he was hardly able to drag his head up to its natural position. When he’d finally summoned the strength, he tried to pull his hands to his face to wipe it free of whatever was keeping his mind from working properly.

It was only then that he discovered that his wrists had been tightly bound behind his back. Feeling around with his fingers, he realized for the first time that he was attached to a metal chair with what felt like a solid pair of metal cuffs.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, trying to engage his brain enough to remember how this had happened.

The last thing he could recall was Cad leaving the Red Room to go get some fresh air. Phair had smiled to himself, knowing his companion was off to work his way into Barton’s computer. They would finally be able to take Mir and her sister out of this place, to free everyone, to report Barton to the proper authorities for his crimes against humans and shifters alike.

Ivan had taken Cad’s place at the table. Barton and Evans had cracked a few lewd jokes about women, and then suddenly…

Suddenly Barton had turned his head to Ivan and said one word.

Now.

That was when Ivan had held up something that looked like a space-age silver gun and pointed it at Phair.

The Béorn shifter had seen it too late. He’d gotten complacent and foolish. He’d become cocky, told himself that he and Cad had this entire job wrapped up.

He’d failed himself, he’d failed Mir, he’d failed everyone.

The whole damned thing—locking Mir away for the evening, inviting the two shifters to play poker—it had all been orchestrated, like Barton was one step ahead of them the entire time.

But how? How could he have known? There was no way Mir had told him, or Bry for that matter. They hated the man.

Well, it didn’t matter, did it? They were screwed now.

Phair looked around the room, trying to figure out how the hell to get himself out of this predicament. As his eyes searched the shelves in front of him, a low moan sounded from somewhere to his right, and he managed to turn his face enough to see Cad’s limp form in the chair a few feet away.

“Oh, damn,” he said. He could see a small dot of blood on Cad’s neck where the dart must have hit him. Of course, that was it. Ivan had been holding a tranquilizer gun.

The vague recollection came to him of the menacing grin on the bastard’s face, just before he’d felt the blow of impact, just before the world had faded to black.

For some reason, Barton didn’t want them dead. Just incapacitated.

“Cad!” he hissed, trying in vain to kick a leg out towards his friend’s chair. Crap. His ankles were strapped to the chair, too. “Cad!”

Cad muttered something unintelligible, then drifted off again.

“Wake up, Brother,” Phair hissed. “I really need you to wake up.”

Cad groaned again as Phair tried to pull himself loose. But even his muscles weren’t sufficient to break him free of steel. Worse still, he couldn’t shift, couldn’t summon his Béorn to help, not without risking severe damage to his limbs. The metal could break them during the transformation, then he’d be no good to anyone. Not to Cad, not to…

All of a sudden, an image of Mir flashed through his mind. Where the hell was she? Was she safe? Did she even know what had happened? If Barton was onto him and Cad, he might well suspect that she’d helped them. He might have sent his men for her, too.

He sniffed the air, searching out her smell. But there was no evidence that she’d been here, or anywhere close. That was something, at least. If that bastard Barton did anything to her, anything at all…he’d…

A sound jarred him away from the beginnings of his homicidal fantasy. The door. It was the door creaking open. Someone was coming in.

He turned his head, pretending to be on the verge of unconsciousness as Gunner and Ivan wandered in They were followed by their gruesome overlord, who issued Phair a chilling smile as he came to a stop several feet away.

“Gunner, go find Miranda, would you?” the boss-man ordered, and his henchman nodded, turned on his heel and left. Ivan stood in the doorway, hands behind his back. A malicious smile twisted his lips. Not surprising that the fucker liked the fact that the shifters were finally at his mercy, instead of the other way around.

“So, it seems you two aren’t gentlemen after all,” said Barton, stepping over and kicking Phair’s foot. “It’s unfortunate, you know. I’d grown to like you. I thought perhaps you were two of the good ones—that is, if there’s such a thing as a good shifter. I suppose I’ve always known that it’s an unlikely scenario.”

“As if you have any idea what good is,” said Phair, lifting his head. “You’re a corrupt, abusive bastard who should die in jail.”

“Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?” Barton replied, stepping forward. He reached out and took Phair’s chin in his hand, pulling his head up further. “Good God, you’re a big fucker,” he said. “Why, I wonder, are you so much bigger than most shifters?”

“It’s funny, you know—Mir said the same thing,” Phair replied, a devilish grin slipping over his lips. He knew full well that Barton wouldn’t take well to the reminder that Mir had seen him naked.

Sure enough, Barton drew his arm back and struck him hard across the face. “I know what you’ve done,” he said. “I know that you and your friend here think Miranda is somehow your destined mate.”

“Oh?” Phair asked. “How would you know that?”

Barton smiled. “I have friends in high—and very low—places,” he said. “You see, there are a few shifters willing to work with the likes of me.”

Oh, shite. Very low places. The bastard was talking about the Underground Club. Someone had seen them there—someone who was willing to betray their kind.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Barton said. “That you need to talk to the Dragon Alpha and that Roth creature. You need to warn them. Well, I can’t very well let you do that, can I? It would be utter stupidity on my part.”

“Which means you’re going to kill us,” Phair said. To his right, Cad muttered something too faintly to make any sense.

“Well, to be fair, I probably won’t do the killing,” Barton said, nodding over his shoulder towards Ivan. “There’s a bloke over there who’s just aching to do it himself.”

“I’ll bet he is,” replied Phair.

“You do realize that Miranda isn’t yours, don’t you?” Barton asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m so I’m glad you enjoyed her for a few nights. But she’s not your mate. She never will be.” He let go and turned back to the Béorn shifter. “She never was, not really. You see, she’s learned to act in her time with me. She’s good at it, too. The clients love her because they always believe that she’s really, really into them.”

Something inside Phair tightened. “She doesn’t act with us,” he growled, anger rising like bile in his chest. “You know that perfectly well. You know it’s different with us.”

“You know what? I don’t think so. I’ve watched her with other men. I know how charming she can be.”

Phair wanted to unleash his beast, to let out a deafening roar. But his wrists, begging for release, throbbed hard against the steel that shackled them. Pain shot up his legs from the place where the bindings constricted him.

Hang on, he told himself. Wait for it. Torture him first.

A low, rumbling laugh began to build in his throat, not stopping until it echoed through the room.

“Something is amusing you, then?” asked Barton.

Phair nodded. “Absolutely,” he replied. “I suppose it’s the fact that you think for a second that Cad or I would bond with someone who was merely acting. That you think the animals who dwell inside our bodies and souls don’t know when a human is manipulating us.”

Barton looked taken aback. But better still, he looked frightened. Phair knew now that his eyes had begun to take on the golden light that warned others that his Béorn was close at hand. That the bastard would be feeling it in the marrow of his bones.

Death is coming for you.

“You have no clever retort for me, of course,” snarled Phair, “because you couldn’t possibly know what it is to be at one with your mate. No woman has ever loved you. And God knows, you’ll never be capable of love yourself. So yes, I am amused. Because you’re pathetic, Barton. You are a sad, lonely creature whose sole comfort comes from his abuse of others.”

When he saw his captor’s face redden, he knew he’d pressed exactly the right button.

“I’m pathetic?” Barton hissed. “It seems to me that you and your friend here are the ones chained to chairs. You’re the ones who will die tonight. Tell me again how I’m the pathetic one.”

“I think you have it backwards,” Phair growled low.

The other man leaned forward. “What’s that? How could you possibly be serious, shifter?”

“Because the only life that will end tonight, you absolute skin goblin, is yours.”