The door swings open and three guards enter. The one in front is older, maybe late-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped military-short and a face mapped with lines—some scars, some deeply cut wrinkles. His eyes are cold, calculating, assessing me.
He’s a threat, but it’s the man to his right that worries me.
The second guard is the younger one from yesterday. He watches me with an eagerness that makes my skin crawl. His uniform is impeccable, his posture perfect, but there’s something feral in his eyes.
Smells bad,my wolf tells me.Rotten. Corrupt.
I agree. He has the look of someone who enjoys causing pain, who gets a sick thrill from watching people break. The way his hands flex tells me he’s itching to start, already imagining the sounds I’ll make.
He’s looking at me like I’m prey. Like he expects me to cower, to beg, to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
Wrong fucking wolf, asshole.
Despite the unease swirling in my gut—and the knowledge this man could do anything he wished to me—I meet his gaze head-on, letting him see the promise of violence burning in my eyes. Let him get his kicks elsewhere, I won’t be feeding his sick appetite today.
But it’s the third figure who catches me off guard. A small woman, barely five feet tall, with pale skin and eyes so light blue they’re almost white. She hangs back in the shadows, trembling visibly, her gaze darting around the cell as if seeing things I can’t. Her hands are wrapped in what appear to be silk gloves, and she flinches whenever the younger guard moves too close to her. For some reason, she reminds me of a little sparrow, fluttering its little tail nervously.
I inhale, catching her scent. Not a wolf. Some other type of were or fae or witch then. Impossible to tell without getting closer.
The older man crouches in front of me, his lips peeled into what could be called a grin if you were a satanist.
“You ready for a chat?”
“Fuck off.” I turn away from him. “I’m in the middle of a facial, can’t you tell?”
The punch catches my cheek. It’s brutal, cracking against my cheek and tossing me to the ground. I taste blood.
From the cell next door comes a harsh, bitten-out curse, followed by the sharp rattle of chains. Like someone just lunged forward against their restraints.
Grunting, I force myself to sit up straight, glaring at the young guard who shakes out his hand with a smile.
Fucking sadist.
“I’m Jim,” says the older one, staying just out of reach. “This is Bob”—he gestures to the young guard—”and that’s Prudence.”
I hide my confusion behind mockery. “Jim, Bob, and Prudence? What is this, a church social committee? Couldn’t spring for some intimidating code names?”
Another punch comes from Bob, catching me in the gut. I let out a pained grunt, doubling over.
The sound of metal scraping stone echoes through the wall—like someone’s pacing frantically in tight quarters, chains dragging across the floor with each agitated step.
He steps back, and I force myself to stare up at him, refusing to show pain.
“You sure you want to keep doing that? It might mess up your manicure.” I nod at his hand. “Those cuticles look freshly polished.”
Bob’s face flushes crimson. “You won’t find it so funny when I’m done with you, bitch.”
“Easy, Bob,” Jim cautions. “We need her coherent.” He turns to me with a practiced smile. “Let’s start simple. What’s your position in the Shadowmist Pack?”
“I’m the one who gets to rip your throats out.”
Jim sighs. “This’ll go easier if you cooperate.”
I spit blood onto his polished boots. “Bite me, bitch.”
This time I’d ready for the sharp kick Bob delivers to my ribs. His boot slams into my side, and I hear the crack-pop of a rib giving way. Pain flares white-hot, stealing my breath. I fold over, choking on the scream I won’t let them hear.
Fuck. That hurt.
