Page 5 of Dragon Flames
I will obey.
For now.
And I am shocked when I receive a small nod of respect in return.
As though my compliance is a signal, the women descend on me like a pack of hyenas.
After hours of being plucked and smoothed and prodded, I finally find peace when I’m shoved into the back of a windowless van with five very sweaty guards.
Not the usual prison guards.
No, these guys are all dolled up in black suits, black shoes, black shirts, black ties.
You get the picture.
Not one lick of personality among them.
While thoughts of escape dance through my head, it doesn’t take a genius to know I’ll be shot as soon as I move a muscle. Though it might not kill me, I’ll still need all my wits about me tonight if I want to survive.
After three hours in the van, I’m about ready to take the chance.
Getting shot will be worth it if I succeed in escaping this endless torture.
I can deal with the silence, but the anticipation is preying on my last nerve.
I long for the chance to breathe the outside air and see the sky for the first time in ten years.
We drive for so long that it takes a while for me to notice the van is slowing.
I tense, and every single guard in the van draws his weapon.
I sit alone on the bench opposite the doors, while the men are lined up on benches on either side of the van. The one sitting nearest the door lifts the fob hanging from around his neck and caresses the button in warning. They put me in a fucking shock collar, even showed me what it would feel like if I dare to try and escape my gracious escort.
I swallow hard at the sensation of fire burning through my veins, but what these fuckers don’t seem to understand is that I live for pain—it’s all I know.
It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.
The doors are opened from the outside, and I grit my teeth to hide my disappointment when I see we’re in some sort of underground parking garage. As the rest of the guards exit the vehicle, I count my now-growing escort.
“More than twenty-five men, shifters every one of you, just for little ol’ me?” I bat my lashes at them, and I’m rewarded when about half of the men shift uncomfortably, refusing to meet my eyes.
I’m not sure whether it’s the sheer threat of my dominance or the fact that they were raised from birth to view women as something precious who should be protected at all costs.
Almost every scar and bruise on my body is revealed by the ridiculous dress I’ve been sown into by the minions of hell. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone—and would slit their throats if they dared say it—but it was almost nice to be able to wear something so fine.
Something that didn’t have stains and piss marks from the thousands of other inmates who wore it before me.
As I step down from the van, a single guard offers me his hand.
I hesitate a moment, looking down at the man—who could’ve been old enough to be my grandfather—and reluctantly accept his grasp. As he helps me to the ground, he holds my gaze for a full minute before he ultimately releases me and barks orders to the others.
Ignoring the chaos around me, I tip my head back and close my eyes, inhaling the first deep breath of freedom.
I don’t care that it smells of exhaust and oil and dirt.
It’s glorious.
A throat clears, and I sigh, reluctantly opening my eyes.
