by P. Jameson
And she was only a picture that he kept near his heart in the pocket of his fucking vest.
But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she never felt a fucking thing for him. All that mattered was that she lived.
No me without her.
Think, think…
But there was no thinking. There was nothing but sheer desperation and panic. No logic, no plan. Just a burning, burning ball of rage in his center that refused to be ignored.
It clawed at him, ripping him from the inside out. Shredding him.
No me without her.
Save her, save mate.
No me without her.
Skittles jerked open the door of his bedroom just in time. Because his next breath was a fiery roar as he lost the rest of himself to the beast within. Burning, burning. Burning alive. A raging wicked beast, it had to be.
Because his only thought was to kill.
Kill them all. Kill everything.
***
Another day. She’d made it another day, and she wasn’t sure if it was a miracle or a curse to still be alive.
Number Seven rested weakly against the wall of her new cell, waiting for the men to return and torture her some more for information she wouldn’t give. Her wrists ached where they were raw from the shackles she wore and every part of her throbbed with the pain of someone wounded again and again at regular intervals for who knows how long now.
How long had she been here, in her new home?
Home. Ha. What a funny thing. What was home anymore?
For many years home was the basement of Bastian Marx’s mansion. He kept all his prized possessions close by, so he could pull them out and play with them whenever he felt like it.
He didn’t call them Dolls for nothing.
Dolls because they were poseable, bending to his will. Dolls because their only purpose was to be used, in one way or another. Dolls because they had once been pretty and sparkly and new, and now were just used and broken.
Dolls. She was just one of his Dolls.
Oh, that’s what he wanted her to believe. What he’d wanted them all to believe. But she didn’t buy it. Not anymore.
Maybe no one should want the used broken Dolls, but there was always someone who could see the broken things as something they could repair. Yeah, there was always an asshole like that out there… or two.
Some of them had come for the Dolls, to take them away from the basement. And there was something special about them. Something that she had tried to make sense of in her mind, and couldn’t no matter how she tried to logic it out.
“Fire,” she whispered to herself. She barely heard the sound of her own voice. She was weaker than she’d ever been. But saying it out loud helped remind her she wasn’t crazy.
Yes, she had actually seen a man turn into a burning lion. A roaring, flaming cat that stood taller than she did, with a flaming mane, who hissed smoke. Ratchet was his name, and she’d watched him transform while he tried to help her cross Bastian’s electric fence.
But 5000 volts hadn’t killed him as it should have. Instead, it turned him into a beast.
She reminded herself of this truth as often as she could.
She rubbed the scabbing line across her forearm where he’d accidentally burned her.
It was real. The cat was real. The men who wanted broken Dolls were real.
But she’d been left behind. That was real too.
Nyla still didn’t know if they’d taken the others to a better place or just more of the same. But now she’d probably never know.
Because Bastian was going to kill her.
Unless her message to the one they called Skittles got through. She could only hope she’d broken the firewall down enough to get the message out. And unless they could get here first. And unless they cared enough to help her.
The chances were not good.
They had no reason to help her. Why would they come back for one Doll? She didn’t even know why they’d come before. But surely the life of one useless Doll wasn’t worth risking the others.
No. It wasn’t.
Nyla closed her eyes, realizing fast and hard just how selfish her desperate plea for help was. Had she just put everyone she cared for in danger? Could the burning cat even keep them safe from Bastian?
Shit, what had she done?
Nyla shivered, so cold her bones hurt and too weak to huddle tighter for warmth. The cell was cold and damp. She wasn’t sure what part of Bastian’s estate she was in, only that she hadn’t left the grounds. They’d taken her away from the control room after she escaped to send her message. Kept her away from any computers, phones, or electronics. Anything she could manipulate to get help was out of reach.
They had tossed her in some deep dark secret of part of her owner’s sordid center of operations and exacted enough torture that she should have screamed the details of the Dolls escape by now.
But she hadn’t.
She was made of tougher shit than that. She wasn’t sugar and spice like Janet or everything nice like Skye. She wasn’t even innocent like Marlee.
She was anger and fury and everything daunting.
It boiled on the inside, the things she’d done, the things she’d been through. It writhed sick and sticky within her, gumming up every good feeling she could have, every thought for a better future. And she covered all that sickness up with calm, cool logic. Because logic was the way she survived. Her smarts had saved her more than once. More than a ton. And it was what she knew best, thinking, forming plans, sketching out a map to get what was needed. Whether it be an escape from a grungy basement or a way to cheat Bastian’s enemies out of something he wanted for himself. She had many skills but they always started with one thing.
Her brain.
Plan, think, do.
Don’t feel, don’t hurt, don’t dare to dream, and most of all, don’t love. Don’t ever love. Don’t even think about it. Not even a hint.
Love is pain.
There were many reasons for this rule, yet she couldn’t help breaking it over and over. As if she couldn’t calculate how incredibly stupid it was.
And she’d gone and done it again, hadn’t she?
Because she loved the Dolls.
The five of them had been through hell together. She’d hated them all at first, with a deep passion. Thought them weak for allowing Bastian to use them. Hated the way they had let themselves get caught in his trap. How could they be so stupid?
Until she became the fluttering moth in the spider’s web. How easily he had captured her. How simple it was to ensnare her, hook her, strip her of her identity and set her on a shelf to pluck and play with at his leisure.
It wasn’t that any of them were stupid.
It wasn’t that they were weak.
It was only that they had something the demon wanted. And Bastian always got what he wanted.
Over time, she’d grown to love the Dolls like they were her own sisters. She respected them for their best qualities and learned to ignore their worst. And they had done the same for her.
Now she was alone at the end. And worse than that, she might have endangered them all.
Seven drifted out of consciousness. There was nothing to indicate time. No darkness except the shadows in the cell and no lights except that which streamed in from beneath the door.
How long had it been since she’d eaten? Her mouth was parched, even though she’d found a spot in the concrete where water pooled and… god. She’d licked it up like an animal.
Hatred filled her heart for the man who’d brought her this low. Hatred so pure, it warmed her for a few minutes. Long enough for her to drift off to sleep once more.
But she came awake to the creaking of the rusty hinges.
No. No more.
Maybe dying was the only way out. It was better than existing like this, wasn’t it? Like a beaten dog on the cold floor, drinking from scant damp puddles.
Except… dying meant she couldn’t have revenge o
n Bastian. For that reason alone, she wanted to live. Goddamn it, she wanted to live.
The click of a cane hitting the floor with each step, told her it was him this time. He’d come himself to do his evils instead of sending his henchmen. He stopped beside her, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not enough energy.
Staring down at her in the dimness of the cell, he clucked his tongue. She hated the sound of it. Wanted to pull it from his throat and use it to smother his greedy ass.
“Seven, my lovely little Seven. I had so much hope for you,” he said, hinting at sadness that wasn’t really there. She knew him well. He was loving this. “I’d planned on keeping you forever, girl. You were so very valuable to me, but now…” He sighed, crouching beside her. “Now, you are completely useless. Not only that, I can’t trust you. And that means you have to go.”
It meant death. Bastian killed things that had outlived their usefulness.
“What if…” Her voice was faint and she was stalling. “…you could trust me… again?”
She didn’t know where this was going. Didn’t have a plan. They were just desperate words falling from her lips.
Maybe she could make promises and he’d feed her. With some food, maybe she could think her way to freedom. Maybe.
“Does that mean you’re ready to tell me who took my Dolls?”
Nyla swallowed, trying to get the knot in her throat down.
“You know who it is, Seven. You tried to contact them.”
She couldn’t form words. Her voice refused to work.
“It might interest you to know that the message wasn’t received. It failed, girl. You’ll die here and no one will know you even tried.”
His cruel words ripped a sob from her chest, but there were no tears. She was too dry. She’d cried them all out.
And there it was. Her last hope. Gone, like a sandcastle on the beach, demolished by one big cruel wave.
The only question now was who she wanted to be in her last moments.
Would she go out silently, protecting the ones she loved with her last fucking breath?
Or would she use them to get free, to live a few more months of this hell on earth?
Bastian stood, sniffing in that haughty way that made her cringe. “What will it be, Seven? Will you save yourself, earn your way back into my graces?” His voice was deceptively smooth before turning grotesque. “Or die on this cold fucking floor? Give me your answer now before I change my mind and feed you to the dogs.”
Nyla pressed her cheek to the cold brick wall, praying for strength… for a wisp of an idea… for an answer to her demise.
Then it came. Quick and hard and brutal. And she spoke words she never thought she would.
“Alley… Cat.”
Chapter Four
Skittles paced the warehouse floor while he waited for the rest of the clan to gather. They were leaving at midnight to raid Bastian’s estate. Another hour and he’d have Nyla in his arms.
One more hour, mate. Hold on. Your male is coming. The Firecats are coming.
Firecat.
Skittles flexed his fingers remembering what it was like to explode into flames. Hot flames full of hope mixing with so much fury.
He was a goddamned Firecat.
After so much wishing for it, just so he could be strong enough to get his fucking girl free, he finally was.
It felt damn good.
Finally, he would have her near him. Hold her. Help her heal, like the others had done for their girls.
But some niggling part of his brain told him it wouldn’t be that easy, that this was only the beginning of their struggles.
He couldn’t help feeling like the animal that burst from his body was different than the others. The Firecats were born out of love. A love that could break the curse the witches put on them. That’s how it was with Malcom, Ratchet, and Monster. But Skittles didn’t think his had come from love. It seemed like his fire had formed out of fear.
Fear of losing his mate.
And if his childhood taught him anything it was that fear was dangerous.
Which meant his Firecat was dangerous.
When he shifted, everything inside and out burned, but he didn’t feel new. The fire didn’t cleanse him. He still felt anger. Rage. A thirst for vengeance.
With no way to temper those feelings, and the fire raw and untested, he had attacked his brothers and damn near burned the warehouse down before Monster’s mate stopped him, surprising them all with a cat of her own.
Ice Cat.
The Doll was Fang’s lost sister from the time of the Fathers’ reign, and had been living with Bastian as a shade, unaware of her powers. Until Skittles’s new beast attacked… well, everyone, including her mate.
Fire meet Ice.
Hours later, the words still rolled around in his head.
She was ice because the mating bond she shared with Monster changed her animal into something that could never be harmed by them.
Fire can burn a lot of things, but it can’t burn ice.
Fuck, Skittles was never so thankful for being put in his place. He didn’t want to hurt any of them. He only wanted to get his female safe.
She deserved to be safe. Whatever mistakes got her caught in Bastian’s trap, they didn’t matter. The man was evil, cunning, and had all of Memphis under this thumb. The things he had done to the Dolls were nothing anyone deserved.
They were unforgiveable.
Skittles passed a stack of charred pallets. His Firecat’s handywork. But he couldn’t find the energy to be ashamed. Not when he was finally powerful enough to take action.
Now, he just had to keep steady until he could get to her.
Then he had to become worthy of the new animal before he lost it all over again.
The idea struck a chord of warning in his heart.
Shit. He had to be careful. Had to be good. Stay right. He could do it. He would do it.
One by one, the other Alley Cats gathered, some of them bearing enough weapons to fund a war. Others, didn’t need those weapons anymore.
He was damn happy to be one of the ones who didn’t.
When they were all there, Felix turned to Ratchet. “Well, what’s the plan, boss?”
Ratchet scowled. “Don’t call me that.”
Felix was their leader. Had been the cruelest of them all. But since he was no longer the most powerful, he pretended to defer to Ratchet, who’d been the first of them to change.
But pretended was the key word. Because Felix was just biding time until he fixed his own broken animal.
If it was even possible.
Skittles had his doubts.
Ratchet looked to Skittles. “Plan?”
Yeah, he was usually the man with a plan. But the only one he had right now was to bust his way in Bastian’s door, blow fire all over the fucking place, and walk out with his mate in his arms.
Seemed solid.
A small female voice sounded from the steel staircase across the room. “She won’t be in the basement. He will have moved her.” Vegas, Monster’s mate stood halfway up with the other rescued Dolls and Mama Kitty, watching the men below.
She had the most reliable intel on Bastian’s compound because she’d been there the longest. Given to the crime lord as a small child, she’d been raised by him. But it hadn’t saved her from any of his cruelty. No, he’d used her to cook and package his drugs, and stuffed her in the dungeon to starve with all the other Dolls.
“Where would he take her?” Ratchet asked.
“He wouldn’t have gone far from the mansion. She’s on the grounds somewhere, but not in the basement. He would be keeping a closer eye on her. Maybe…” She hesitated, looking uneasy.
“Where?” Skittles pushed, trying to keep his voice easy. Fucking impossible.
“Maybe the hidden room.”
“The hidden room?”
“Not many people know about it. I only do because he used to put me there when visitors who didn’t know of
his business would come over. You know, politicians and big money guys. People he didn’t want to know about me.”
Skittles swallowed the burn rising in his throat.
“How do we find it?”
Vegas frowned, seeming to deflate. “I don’t know. He blindfolded me. I only know we didn’t leave the compound.”
“Shiiit,” Felix cursed, looking like he wanted to smile. The bastard. “Guess this won’t be a simple in-and-out kinda fuck, hm?”
Ratchet spoke up. “It doesn’t matter. We’re going in, and we’re not leaving until we have Nyla.” He looked at Skittles, gave him a hard nod.
Damn straight.
Skittles wasn’t ready to forgive Ratchet for leaving her behind. Not yet. He’d revisit the idea after he had his female safe.
“Fine, fine,” Felix grumbled. He whistled a sharp, eerie sound that always got the clan’s attention. His trademark warning. It usually meant shit was about to blow. “Head out!”
As the men filed out of the warehouse, Skittles watched Monster and Ratchet stop by the stairs to say goodbye to their girls. The way the females melted into their rough hold did something to Skittles’s chest. Made it ache. He’d have that soon.
Not soon enough.
He noticed Smokes leaning against the wall, heel kicked up as he finished his cigarette. But his gaze kept shifting to the stairs like he had a reason for looking. Was one of the Dolls his? He’d denied it before the last rescue mission when Skittles showed him the photo.
Eventually, the male took the last puff, used the ashtray to snuff out the cig, and stalked out the door with the rest of them.
The next few minutes were a blur as they loaded into trucks and bikes and drove the shortest route to Bastian’s property. Every mile closer they traveled, Skittles heart rate shot up by ten.
Almost there. Almost.
He was glad to have his animal senses again. He would just track her to this hidden room. But first he’d cut all the fucking camera wires he could find. Make it harder for Bastian and his men to see where they were. And after this was over… there would be war. Because no one moved against the Lord of Memphis without starting a war.
Felix and the others hadn’t thought that far ahead, but Skittles had. And he didn’t know how they’d survive a war with Bastian. Not when he had the Junkyard Dogs wolf pack in his pocket. Not to mention damn near all law enforcement. And money to fund any fucking thing he wanted.
