The thought was fleeting. It only lasted as long as it took her to glance over her father’s shoulder, into the gloom of the cell, to see wild golden eyes staring back at her. A growl, so deep and dark it rumbled the marrow of her bones, echoed off of the stone walls.
A predator.
Fear increased its weight on her lungs.
Josephine’s shoulders curled as her breath shortened. The beast balked at entering the dark, confined space of the cell with a predator. Instincts screamed as his scent reached her — musky, wild, and tinged with the horrible antiseptic solvent her father had all his subjects scrubbed with when they came into his tender care.
She couldn’t make out much in the dusty shadows of his cell. There was just enough light from the tiny, barred window far above his head to discern the savage cast of his features: a crooked nose, lips pulled over distended fangs, several days’ worth of beard growth, a heavy brow dropped low over those glowing eyes.
Shifter. Oh gods, let it not be a shifter. Not again!
An incoherent sound of alarm — a shameful animal’s whimper — escaped her throat before she could stop it.
The shifter’s eyes opened wide enough for her to make out a ring of white all around his golden irises.
Instinct compelled her to look down, but she found that she couldn’t. For the span of a heartbeat, she met his eye boldly. There was no sound. There was no cell, no Harrod, nor her father. There was only that hard face, the rich scent of him, and the syrupy heat that pooled in her belly when she watched his lips part with a rough exhalation.
And then she blinked.
There was a beat of silence before he threw himself against his bonds, canines extended, and roared again.
Josephine’s mind shut down. It didn’t matter that she knew he was restrained, chained to the wall like all those who came before him. After the third time she was attacked and nearly killed, her father and Harrod had made sure they restrained the subjects — if not out of some great love for her, than to protect their greatest asset.
She knew there were sigil-lined chains and shackles holding him against the wall. She knew that he could not shift when he was cuffed. She knew that no matter how he tried, he could not hurt her.
It didn’t matter.
Yield or die.That was what the beast frantically whispered to her.Bare your throat and hope he shows mercy.
Another whimper escaped. Was it not bad enough that she was forced to harm another being so irreparably? Now she had to endure the beast’s mindless terror, its absolute certainty that the being in the cell would rip her to shreds at the slightest provocation. A high whine slipped from her at the terrible mental image.
“Enough of all that,” her father commanded. He closed his journal with a snap and gestured toward the bound man with it. “Making noise won’t get you anywhere. If I can hear you from my lab, I’ll be forced to gag you.” His dark head turned to fix Josephine with a dismissive look. “And you, too. You know how I feel about your noises, Josephine.”
No tears. No screaming. No arguments.
It was Wyeth way, for as long as she had been alive. Even before she was changed, when she was simply a stain on their family’s reputation, her father never tolerated excess noise.
Now that she was a prisoner and his greatest accomplishment, he had even less patience for it.
Words rose up to clog her throat. She desperately wanted to beg him not to do this. It was always this way, but now there was a hysterical edge to her desire to plead with him.
Josephine’s eyes flicked back over his shoulder. The shifter was watching her, wild-eyed. When she moved even an inch, his gaze tracked her.
“Papa,” she began, words tumbling one over the other, heedless of the danger inherent in argument, “are you certain it’s safe? What if he gets loose?”
She felt the painful bite of Harrod’s fingers as he and her father shared a look of profoundly male exasperation.
“I’ve explained this to you,” her father answered, distaste in every word. “No one can break those chains. I promised there wouldn’t be anymore attacks, didn’t I?” He stepped aside and motioned for Harrod to push her through the doorway. “Besides, it’s not like it wouldn’t do you some good. Perhaps if you were attacked again, you might actually show some progress.”
Harrod released her arm with a small shove. She pitched forward, laces tangling, and landed hard onto the scrubbed tile floor, specially installed for the ease of sanitation. Her shawl sagged until it slipped off her shoulders entirely.
Cold sweat broke out all over her body. She scrambled to get her sore limbs to work, trying to stand, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Her muscles locked in a rigid position, frozen by the beast’s fear.
Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth when she tried one last time, “Papa, please—”
Continuing as if she hadn’t spoken at all, he briskly informed her, “We are following all of the established protocols. Three days’ exposure. Three days’ contact. If he’s not showing signs of infection by then, we proceed to the bite.” His expression hardened. “Don’t disappoint me this time, Josephine.”
There were tears in her voice when she begged,“Papa,please don’t leave me with him.”
