Chapter Two
The basement stank. Ewen could definitely scent mold, a hint of old blood, and yeah…
He sniffed. I’m not smelling so good now either.
There was something else in the air - something that reminded Ewen of rotting vegetation, but as there wasn’t even a plant to be seen, he had no idea what that smell might be, or where it came from.
Keeping track of time wasn’t easy either.
The only light came from a bare bulb dangling from a wooden ceiling.
No windows. No other forms of light. Clearly, his captors weren’t worried about the electricity bill as no one turned the light off.
Ewen recognized the ploy for what it was - keep a captive guessing, upset his biological clock.
It ruined sleep patterns and shattered nerves.
Even his “bathroom breaks” were irregular - as far as Ewen could tell.
But, he reasoned, at least I get them, otherwise the stench around here would be a lot worse.
How many days had he been held? Ewen had lost count, so he focused on what he did know.
His wrists burned where the zip ties cut into skin.
His captors had upgraded from rope bindings after his first escape attempt.
Well, “attempt” was generous. Ewen had managed to loosen the knots before one of his captors - the shorter one with the scar through his eyebrow - had walked in and backhanded him hard enough to split his lip.
That was yesterday. Possibly. Probably.
Ewen shifted in the metal chair, trying to find a position that didn’t make his spine scream.
The chair was bolted to the concrete floor because, apparently, his kidnappers believed in thorough preparation.
They got points for professionalism, he supposed.
Negative points for the whole kidnapping-and-torture thing, though.
His phone was long gone. So were his glasses.
He was lucky that he didn’t actually need prescription glasses – he just liked the thick frames he favored and felt more people took him seriously that way.
It was also fortunate that his messenger bag with all his printed research about the defense contracts and the shell companies funneling money to gods knows where, had been stashed the moment he knew he was being followed.
He’d been so careful - wiping his work computer, paying cash for the Egypt trip, and using a burner email to set up the meeting with his source.
And then Lamont, of all people, had walked into Pier888. Lamont, a well-respected freelance investigative journalist, whose byline Ewen had always followed both for the writing and the stunning headshot accompanying each article. Bumping into him hadn’t factored into my plans.
Ewen closed his eyes, which didn’t make much difference in the dim light.
He could still see Lamont perfectly - tall enough that Ewen had to tilt his head back, shoulders broad enough to block out half the restaurant, those dark eyes that had locked onto Ewen like he was the only person in the room.
The pull had been immediate. Visceral. Like someone had reached into Ewen’s chest and tied a string directly to his heart, then yanked.
Mate.
His fox had known instantly, had practically turned somersaults inside Ewen’s skull, yipping and preening.
Ewen had barely managed to string together a coherent sentence in French, something about having a lead, needing to talk.
He was conscious of the thugs approaching and knew he had to keep his mate safe, but he couldn’t resist the pull.
His brain had short-circuited the moment Lamont smiled - small, barely there, but enough to make Ewen’s knees go weak.
Then the thugs, who’d been trailing him for days, got pushy and played their hand.
Ewen opened his eyes, staring at the water-stained ceiling.
There was a lot his mind was struggling to figure out.
Lamont had clearly sensed something was wrong.
Ewen had caught the way those dark eyes tracked the two men, the subtle shift in Lamont’s posture - in Ewen’s eyes he appeared predatory and alert, which was the mark of the “other” he clearly was.
But he’d just...left. He walked away while the two goons gave up any pretense at conversation dragged Ewen out the back entrance and shoved him into a van.
“Maybe he had somewhere more important to be,” Ewen muttered to the empty basement. His voice came out rough. His throat was dry from dehydration, and yelling for help that never came.
Except that didn’t track. The way Lamont had looked at him wasn’t the look of someone planning to abandon a stranger to kidnappers. That was the look of someone who gave a damn, at least in that moment.
So why didn’t he come?
Ewen’s fox whined, a pitiful sound that echoed through his thoughts. His animal side didn’t understand. Mates protected. Mates saved. That was the whole biological imperative of the bond, wasn’t it? Find your mate, keep your mate safe, live happily ever after in a den somewhere.
“Maybe I got it wrong,” Ewen said to the ceiling. “Maybe he’s not actually my mate. Maybe I’m just delusional from stress and sleep deprivation.”
His fox snarled at that, deeply insulted.
Okay then, Lamont was definitely his mate. Which meant either Lamont didn’t know, or Lamont didn’t care, and Ewen wasn’t sure which option hurt more. If he didn’t know…
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open.
Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.
It was just one set this time, lighter than usual.
Not my bathroom break then. Ewen straightened up as much as the zip ties allowed, forcing his face into something resembling neutral.
Don’t let them see your fear. That was Investigative Journalism 101, though admittedly Professor Douglas had been talking about confrontational interviews at the time, not kidnapping.
The woman who appeared wasn’t one of his usual captors.
She was younger, mid-twenties maybe, wearing expensive jeans and a silk blouse that seemed wildly inappropriate for a kidnapping operation.
Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, and she carried a bottle of water as if it were a fashion accessory.
“Mr. Cross.” Her English was perfect, barely accented. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks. You should see the other guy.” Ewen tried for a grin. His split lip protested.
She didn’t smile. “Are you ready to tell us about your source?”
“I already told your friends upstairs. I don’t have a source. I’m not even working. I’m in Egypt for a vacation. Pyramids, sphinxes, the whole tourist package.”
“Lying makes this harder.”
“So does zip-tying someone to a chair in a basement, but here we are.”
The woman sighed and pulled over a plastic crate, settling onto it like it was a throne. She unscrewed the water bottle cap, took a long drink, then held it just out of Ewen’s reach. His throat ached for just one drop.
“The documents you printed,” she said. “Where are they?”
“The ones from work?” They’ve got contacts at The Times? “In a recycling bin, most likely. I’m very environmentally conscious.”
“Your messenger bag is missing. We tore apart your hotel room. Nothing.”
Because Ewen had been paranoid enough to rent a second room under a fake name and stash everything there. Small victories.
“I lost it.”
“Maybe you gave it to someone.” The woman leaned forward. “Like the man you were speaking with at the restaurant. The tall one with the long hair.”
Ewen’s heart kicked against his ribs. They’d noticed Lamont. Of course they had. They’d been watching Ewen the whole time, waiting to see who he met with, what he handed over.
“That was just some guy asking for directions.” Don’t give me a heart attack, he warned his animal side. We have to protect him.
“In French?”
“It’s a very common language, and it was how he addressed me. I was just being polite.”
The woman stood abruptly, dumping the rest of the water onto the concrete floor. Ewen watched it spread across the stained surface, soaking into cracks and disappearing. I’d lap that up in a heartbeat if I could get out of this damn chair, he thought, blinking rapidly.
“We know who that man is,” she said. “He goes by one name as if he’s a celebrity. Lamont. Freelance journalist, apparently highly regarded in his field.” She sniffed as if she found the idea ridiculous. “Interesting that he happened to be at the same restaurant as you.”
Panic spiked through Ewen’s chest. If they knew Lamont’s name, they could find him. Could hurt him. Could…
“We weren’t working together,” Ewen said quickly. Too quickly. Damn it, slow down, and keep calm. “I’d never met him before that night.”
“Then why did he look at you like that?”
Like what? Like Ewen mattered? Like seeing Ewen had flipped some switch in Lamont’s brain and rearranged his priorities?
Except it hadn’t, clearly, because Lamont had left.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The woman studied him, dark eyes calculating. “You’re protecting him.”
“I’m hardly in a position to protect anybody. I don’t know him. We exchanged maybe ten words before your goons showed up.”
“Hmm.” She moved toward the stairs, heels clicking against concrete. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. Cross. Think carefully about what you want to tell me. My employers are running out of patience.”
She left, and the door locked behind her with a heavy clunk.
Ewen sagged in the chair, adrenaline draining away and leaving exhaustion in its wake. His fox was pacing now, agitated and anxious. The animal kept reaching for Lamont through a bond that apparently didn’t exist yet, whining when it found nothing.
“He doesn’t know,” Ewen whispered to his fox. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
Because if Lamont had recognized Ewen as his mate, he never would have let those men drag Ewen away.
He would have torn through them like tissue paper, would have followed the van, would have tracked Ewen down by now.
The mate bond was supposed to be overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
But it only worked if both people felt it.
That had to be it. Lamont didn’t know.
Some paranormals, like shifters, recognized their mates instantly.
For others the process took time, or proximity, or the right circumstances.
For example, vampires needed to smell someone’s blood.
Ewen’s fox had known the second Lamont walked into view, but maybe whatever Lamont was - and Ewen still couldn’t figure that out - maybe his species didn’t work that way.
“Or maybe you’re just not his type,” Ewen muttered. “Maybe he likes tall, muscular guys who don’t get kidnapped within five minutes of meeting.”
His fox growled, indignant this time.
Fine. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter that Lamont didn’t know.
If he didn’t know, he wasn’t coming. Which meant Ewen needed to figure out his own escape plan, because sitting in a basement waiting for rescue was pathetic and would probably end up with him dead.
Then I’ll never learn what species Lamont is.
Ewen tested the zip ties again, twisting his wrists carefully.
The plastic cut deeper, warm blood trickling down his palms. The chair didn’t budge, the bolts were holding firm.
Even if he could shift - which he couldn’t with the way his hands were bound - his fox form wasn’t exactly built for breaking chains.
He could slide out of the zip ties that way…
but both of my shoulders would be dislocated.
Silver foxes were small, quick, and clever. Great for stealing chickens and looking adorable. Terrible for combat.
Footsteps overhead made Ewen freeze. Multiple sets this time, heavy boots against floorboards. Voices filtered down, arguing in Arabic. Ewen’s Arabic was decent enough to catch a few words: “complications,” “timeline,” “dispose.”
That last one sent ice through his veins.
His fox whimpered, pressing close to Ewen’s consciousness. The animal didn’t understand why their mate hadn’t saved them, and couldn’t comprehend the idea that Lamont didn’t know, didn’t feel the pull. To the fox, it was simple. Mates belonged together. Everything else was just details.
“I know, buddy,” Ewen whispered. “I know.”
He closed his eyes again, letting himself picture Lamont one more time.
Those dark eyes, intense and focused. That long hair that Ewen wanted to touch, wanted to tug loose from its tie, and run his fingers through.
The way Lamont had looked at him, really looked, as if Ewen was worth paying attention to.
Maybe if they ever met again - when they met again, Ewen corrected firmly - he’d actually get to have a real conversation. Maybe he’d make Lamont laugh, find out what that smile looked like when it wasn’t guarded. Maybe he’d get to touch those broad shoulders and even lean on them a moment.
The door opened again. Scar-eyebrow descended the stairs, and his expression promised nothing good.
Ewen straightened his spine and met the man’s eyes. If this was it, he’d go down fighting. His fox might not be built for combat, but Ewen Cross wasn’t going out quietly.
“Bathroom break.” The man sneered as he pulled out his knife.
They’re for the zip ties, Ewen mentally screamed at his terrified fox.
If Scar-eyebrow kept insisting on acting as if he was an extra in a horror movie, Ewen wouldn’t need a bathroom break.
He’d need a change of clothes. Although, to be fair, he already did.