Twilight Hunter (The Execution Underground) by Kait Ballenger Read Free Book Online

object, a monster, exactly like his job told him to. She needed to humanize herself.
    “You know, I’d really like some clothes. I had some stuffed in a backpack near where you caught me. I’m a normal person. I don’t usually walk around nude.”
    “You do when you’re with your pack.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “If you’re even part of a pack.”
    She coughed, trying to take in as little smoke as possible. He smelled beautiful, but the smoke drowned out his natural scent. The man seriously needed NicoDerm CQ. He blew out more smoke, and she swore she could already feel her lungs shriveling into black prunes.
    “Are you? Part of a pack?”
    She stayed silent. Would he hate her more if she belonged to a pack or if she were a rogue? Considering the recent DOA rogues, she would bet on the latter.
    “A rogue, huh?” He glanced at her in the mirror.
    Her heart pounded faster as she stared into the reflection of his luminous green eyes. She cleared her throat. Damn hormones. “I’m in a pack.”
    Her pack. Even after functioning as packmaster for three years, she still struggled to absorb the idea. But through her blood, she had birthright, and since her mother and father’s deaths, she had fulfilled her duty. No brothers, no sisters, no cousins. Just her. She was the only one left, and now the first Alpha female ever to run Rochester.
    He turned to the road again, and she leaned into her seat. “Where are we going?”
    He didn’t answer her. His gaze was focused on the road ahead of him with an intense concentration. A strand of his silky auburn hair slid across his headrest, and her fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Ruggedly handsome, the hunter looked as if he’d strolled out of one of her most intimate fantasies, and the image of her hands running over his strong, muscled shoulders shook her.
    The car stopped, and her whole body jerked forward. The hunter hurried from the car. A cold burst of air rushed into the vehicle as he opened the door beside her. He leaned in close and pushed the barrel of his gun into her lower back.
    “You know the drill. Don’t say a damn word.”
    She clamped her jaw shut and didn’t move.
    “Good girl. Now get out of the car.”
    Slowly she stepped out of the Hummer, praying for someone to see her and call the cops to report her for indecent exposure. Man, would she love to see a cop right now. Her captor grabbed hold of her arms and led her onto the sidewalk toward a nearby brownstone. He marched her right up to the entryway before he paused and entered the door code. As soon as the green button lit up, he pushed her inside and paraded her up the stairs.
    They climbed two flights and finally reached a shabby wooden door sporting a pitted brass number six hanging a little too far to the right. He pulled a key—hanging on a chain like a dog tag—from inside his shirt and jammed it into the lock. The tumblers clicked, and he hurried Frankie into the run-down apartment.
    Bleak. That was the one word to describe the small space. A flattened, faded, brown couch sat in the middle of the room, facing a T.V. From the dust on the screen, it was rarely, if ever, used. A small gas stove, a refrigerator, and of course, every man’s best cooking pal, a microwave, sat against the far wall—no division between the living room and the makeshift kitchen. An open door stood across from her, leading into what appeared to be his bedroom. The faint scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
    “Nice place you’ve got here,” she said as he herded her farther into the apartment.
    He ignored her sarcasm and used his key to lock the door behind them. “It locks from the inside, so don’t try to get out.” Standing there handcuffed and naked, she watched him wander into his bedroom, peel off his trench coat and throw it onto the bed.
    She wiggled her wrists around, fighting against the handcuffs to no avail. She could already feel the silver beginning to burn her