The guards marched by her. Didn’t even glance her way.
Once they were gone, she started breathing again.
And after a few moments, she started walking. Now that she was on the right floor, it wasn’t hard to find the furnace room. There was just one big, heavy metal door at the end of the hallway. All the other doors were made of normal wood. She was guessing the metal entrance led to the flames.
To Trace.
There was a lever in front of the metal door, no doorknob. So she spun the lever. Once. Twice. The third time, she heard the grind of gears and the door slid open with a clang. She stepped inside.
“What the hell are you doing here?” a sharp voice demanded.
Crap. Eve whipped out her gun and pointed it at the guy in the white lab coat.
He gulped and his eyes doubled behind the lenses of his glasses. “Guard, what’s happening?”
Right. She was supposed to be a guard. “Th-there’s a change in plans. I’m here for the werewolf.”
His gaze darted to the table on his left. To the body that was covered by a white sheet. “I’m disposing of him now.”
“The hell you are.”
He blinked, then his gaze swept over her. “You’re not one of the normal guards. This isn’t your floor.”
Seriously, the dude was slow on the uptake. Didn’t he realize she had a gun pointed on him? Was that normal guard behavior?
In this place, maybe it is.
Eve smiled at him. “No one has to get hurt here. I’m just going to take that wolf off your hands.”
But the man put his too-thin body between her and that table. “He has to be destroyed. He’s infected.”
Infected?
“I told Wyatt the experiment was dangerous, but the fool wouldn’t listen. They never listen to me here.” Sweat beaded his high forehead. “I have to burn the body before the wolf wakes up.”
Before the wolf wakes up . . . Her heart slammed into her chest. “He’s still alive?” Hope had her feeling light-headed. Yes! Trace was—
The man lunged for her. His fingers wrapped around the barrel of the gun and he tried to yank the weapon right out of her hand.
He was lucky she didn’t shoot his idiotic self right in the heart. Instead, Eve jerked the weapon back even as she kicked the guy in the groin. He groaned and staggered away a few steps, almost ramming into Trace’s body.
“Are you crazy?” she snapped at him. “You don’t charge at someone holding a gun.” That was a pretty clear rule.
Well, you didn’t charge when you were just a human, anyway. And this guy seemed to shout, “Human!” from every pore.
But he wasn’t looking at her. He’d grabbed the table—no, not a table, a gurney—that held Trace’s body, and he was shoving that body right toward the open furnace. A big, giant furnace with a gaping mouth and flames burning inside. The thing looked like what she’d seen inside a crematorium once.
Not the nicest memory.
“Stop!” Eve screamed, lifting her gun. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He ignored her. He was too busy panting and shoving that gurney. Trying to dump Trace’s body in the fire. “Have to . . . destroy . . . before . . . monster wakes . . .”
No. Eve lunged for him and swung the butt of the gun at the man’s head. There was a loud thud as the weapon made contact.
The guy fell to the ground, his body sprawling in a limp heap.
Eve stepped around him and yanked the gurney away from those dancing flames. She grabbed the sheet and tossed it aside. “Trace?” Bullet holes covered his chest. So much silver. She could smell it all around him. Silver and blood.
Holding her breath, Eve put her fingers to his throat. Was there a pulse there? Or was it just her imagination? Her gaze flew around the room. There—a tray of instruments. She rushed to them, dropping her gun on the nearest countertop. She’d get the gleaming tweezers and pull out the silver bullets, or what was left of them. Werewolves always healed better once the silver left their bodies.
She curled her fingers over the tweezers, sent the other instruments scattering, then heard a screech of sound behind her.
Eve spun around. The gurney had flown across the room and crashed into the wall and Trace—Trace was on his feet. Still bloody, but standing on trembling legs.
“Trace!”
His head snapped up at her call, and his eyes locked right on her.
She’d never seen such fury in his stare before. So much blind rage and hate. It all seemed to be directed right at her. “Trace, I’m sorry,” Eve whispered.