Page 5 of Alpha Chained
His lips twist into a cruel sneer. “Don’t make me fucking hurt you, bitch! You’re worth a fortune. Alive and unharmed, that is.” His gaze drops meaningfully to the trickle of crimson leaking from the corner of my mouth. “Of course, if you keep acting up, I may have to make some…adjustments to that price. And, truth be told, it might be worth taking a knock – if it means I can delve into that pretty little head of yours.”
“What?” I frown in confusion.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he sneers. “The information you have is worth millions.”
“What information?” My frown deepens.
“Do you need me to spell it out, wolf girl?” He lifts an eyebrow. “You hold the key to that little gold mine back there. All the details I need to get what I want.”
Details… What? No!
An icy shudder surges through me as understanding hits me. I’m not just a commodity to this man, a product to be bought and sold to the highest bidder. My greatest value, it seems, isn’t in the power running through my veins – it’s in the knowledge locked away in my mind. The inner workings of Steel Lakes. My pack mates. My family.
The realization is like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach.
Parker must read the understanding in my eyes because his grin widens into something cruel and predatory. “That’s it…you’re finally catching on. We’re going to have some interesting conversations, you and I.”
“Never!” I hiss. A lump forms in my throat as my blood turns to ice in my veins. They want Steel Lakes. They want to strip me of every scrap of information, then sell whatever’s left of me. But worst of all, they want to deliver the same fate to my pack.
“Never is a long time when you’re wracked with pain, wolf. But I could make it easy for you. As long as you cooperate, you’ll stay nice and pretty for the buyers.”
“Then you may as well sell me by the pound, you fucking bastard!” I spit at him. “Because I’m not telling you anything.”
“We’ll see about that,” Parker snorts. “Because there are ways to get what I want if you won’t cooperate.” He tilts his head. “You’ll be useful to me, one way or another.”
I set my jaw, not having a response to that. The message is clear: he’s going to torture me to tell him about Steel Lakes.
With a bone-deep chill, I realize my situation is even more dire than I feared. Not only am I trapped…but if I can’t withstand whatever he does to me, I’ve just become a danger to everyone I’ve ever loved.
I have to stay strong.
Chapter 3
Riot
“They said you were an animal,” he snorts. “I don’t see what’s so scary about you.” He runs a contemptuous look up and down my frame. “Look like some kind of pretty boy pussy, if you ask me.”
I don’t bother responding to the taunt. I’ve heard them all.
“I’m sorry that I have to do this.” I lock eyes with the mountain of a man looming in front of me. He’s big. They always are.
“You’re sorry?” He snorts, his breath hot on my face. He’s close enough for the bristles of his tactical beard to brush my jaw when he leans in and sneers, “You’re gonna be sorry, boy. Sorry about what I’m about to do to you.”
I say nothing. There’s no point. These things generally go one of two ways: hotheaded trash talk until they realize what they’re facing. Or silent contemplation of how they’ll defeat me…until they realize what they’re facing.
It’s all the same.
And I no longer care either way. I just want it to be over. Quickly, if possible. Not that he’ll be happy about that; the bastard who runs this. I glance up to the podium outside the octagon, where a smooth-faced man is seated in a high-backed leather wingback. Cool, calm, and collected…but I know what’s beneath the surface. The bloodlust that drives him. I guess he gets off on this shit. He wants this to be drawn out. He wants to linger in the pain that will unfurl here.
He’s not the only one. The air is heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and even more expensive cigars. Men in dress suits put on a display of civility while trying to suppress their excitement.
They don’t fool me. They’re more animal than I am.
Beasts.
The brute in front of me is still yelling – the Moscow Mule, he calls himself, and his words are heavy with the accent of his motherland. Spit flecks my face as he tells me of all the ways he plans to end me. I don’t bother wiping it away. I’ll be coated in more of his body fluids by the end of this night.
I turn my head and lock a stare with the man in the wingback. Flat brown eyes meet mine a moment before he gives the slightest dip of his head and then leans back in his seat, raising his whisky tumbler to his lips. To anyone looking, he’s totally relaxed. But I can see the anticipation coiling within him.