Captive by A.D. Robertson Page A

taken seriously while shirtless.
    When Seamus had escorted Sarah from his room, Tristan began to grope for justifications
     for his actions. He wasn’t trying to deny the primal attraction that drew him to Sarah.
     But Tristan believed he was in control of his baser instincts—simple lust wasn’t enough
     to explain his impulse to keep his prisoner close.
    What Tristan finally settled on was the need for purpose. For the first time since
     he’d been sequestered in Castle Tierney, Tristan had the opportunity to participate
     in the war that shaped his world but that he’d been forced to remain aloof from. The
     enemy had scaled his walls, gained entry to his home. Tristan could turn the Searcher
     over to Bosque, or he could take matters into his own hands. The former held little
     appeal, while the latter . . . well, the latter was more than interesting.
    Convincing Bosque that he’d made the right decision would likely be Tristan’s greatest
     challenge—but he thought he knew how to persuade the Keeper overlord. While his minions
     preferred to inflict suffering upon humans in a direct manner, Bosque had always been
     a master of subtlety. Given that Lord Mar constantly reminded Tristan that he was
     one of the few Keepers who could trace a direct line to their founding mother, Eira,
     and Bosque himself, Tristan believed that Bosque would be intrigued by Tristan’s handling
     of the Searcher.
    This game would be one of wit and will. Well played, it would earn Tristan Bosque
     Mar’s admiration and alleviate the apathy with which Tristan had regarded his life
     of late. He pushed away a nagging thought that the subcreatures’ tactics with prisoners
     might be more honorable. Honor had never been a priority among the Keepers; their
     aim was and had always been power.
    Seamus had knocked and then waited politely for Tristan to call him into the room.
     Tristan sensed immediately that the Guardian was on edge. He poured a second scotch
     and handed it to Seamus.
    “How is our guest settling in?” Tristan asked the wolf.
    Seamus gave a slow shake of his head. “She’s confused and . . . so am I. My lord,
     forgive me for asking, but what the hell has gotten into you?”
    Tristan looked at Seamus with a rueful smile. “It probably won’t reassure you to hear
     me say I’m not sure.”
    When Seamus frowned, Tristan continued. “I have every intention of finding out who
     she is and why she’s here and how she came to know that ‘here’ exists, but I’m going
     to be rather unorthodox in the way I go about it.”
    “Unorthodox, eh?” Seamus chortled before taking a sip of the whisky. “Is that a fancy
     way of saying you’re going to trick her into shagging you?”
    Tristan choked a little on his drink. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Seamus
     read him so easily, but the bluntness of the wolf’s words were still startling.
    “That’s not how I’d put it,” Tristan replied.
    “No, you prefer to call it unorthodox, but the truth is you had a lovely thing laying
     bare-ass on your bed. A man’s blood won’t soon forget such a sight.” Seamus tipped
     his glass toward Tristan. “Be careful, lad. I won’t deny that the Searcher’s a fine-looking
     woman, and I’d be as wary about bedding Lana as you’ve become, but this stranger is
     still your enemy and your prisoner.”
    “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten.” Tristan sighed and looked directly into Seamus’s
     war-weary face. “You think I should just give her to a wraith?”
    Seamus’s lip curled back and Tristan saw the wolf’s canines sharpen. “That’s not what
     I said. Just keep your eyes open.”
    Tristan nodded, and Seamus swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
    “How do you expect Lana to take it?” Seamus asked.
    “Yes.” Lana stood in the doorway. “How do you expect me to take it? You certainly
     know how I like it, which is why I’m quite puzzled with what I’ve been hearing about
     the treatment