Pride Unleashed

by Cathryn Fox

  Otherwise, I’d be asking questions I might not want the answers to. Like why would my father have stayed away so long? Why wouldn’t he have tried to come for me?

  Because there are things you don’t know, some inner voice whispers. Things you’re better off not knowing. I think of Stone, and remember his warning that I shouldn’t have come back, because it’s too dangerous for me now. Could he have been talking about my father?

  Disliking the dark path my thoughts are taking, and knowing I need to keep my head in the game if I want to win the war, I gather myself and concentrate on my surroundings. I can’t let the master mess with my thoughts or shatter my hard-fought focus when survival dictates I look for a new way out of this prison.

  I work to clear my head and tuck away my lingering worries as I step inside Miss Kara’s suite. Now that the storm has passed, warm afternoon sunshine spills in from the big bay window overlooking her majestic mahogany desk but does little to chase the chills from my half naked body.

  I take a small step into the room and the wood floor feels hard beneath my bloodied feet as I’m assaulted with a medley of floral perfumes. My nose twitches as I examine the large suite, looking for any kind of change, anything that could have been altered since my last visit, when Miss Kara fitted me in a gorgeous, white mating dress.

  Looking as elegant and slim as ever with her long dark hair pulled back into an artful ponytail, Miss Kara lowers the book she’s been reading and jumps from her plush recliner. Her eyes are bright, her arms wide as she rushes over to me.

  She gives me a quick squeeze, then her peach-painted lips, full and glossy from too much makeup, pucker slightly. As she scrutinizes me, she pulls a long, wet strand of my dirty hair between her fingers for a close examination. Lawrence removes the chain but keeps my collar in place as she inspects my split ends, then she makes a tsking sound and turns her focus to my current bedraggled state. But suddenly pleasure moves into her eyes replacing the stern consternation as she takes in my new curves.

  “Pride, look at you,” she begins, her white teeth flashing in a smile. “You’re growing up on me.” Keeping her voice light, even though I know it holds a great amount of concern she asks, “How did this happen?”

  I want to tell her it’s because I’m no longer haunted by hunger, that for the last three weeks I’ve eaten real food—fresh food—but instead I just stare up at her and wonder how much the handlers and staff know about my escape. About what’s going on inside the compound?

  With that, she claps her hands together in a familiar gesture, and points a strict finger at me. “You might be filling out, young lady, but you’re currently a pitiful mess.” She waves her finger to the colonial door on my left. “To the shower with you.”

  As I move across her warm wood floor, I think more about Miss Kara. Besides Clover, she is the closest thing I’ve had to a mother since losing my own. Not only does she shower and dress us wolves when the occasion calls for it, she’s also the one who teaches us about manners. In my line of work, education and manners come in handy when I’m trying to lure my mark.

  Once inside the bathroom, I push on the door, leaving it slightly ajar like rules dictate. I peel my cold, wet nightgown from my shoulders, and drop it into the laundry basket, knowing I’ll be given a new one by nightfall. Catching a glimpse of my reflection as I move past the mirror, I can’t help but notice the changes in my body. But thinking of my body has me thinking of Sandy, and all the changes that are taking place inside hers.

  Naked, except for the heavy collar around my neck, I turn on the hot spray and step inside the stall. I take a second to enjoy the blissful heat against my cold skin, then grab the strawberry scented soap as I think more about Miss Kara. Will she take her freedom if I offer it, or would she be too afraid of the consequences should I fail?

  But failure is not an option, I remind myself.

  After I shower, I wrap a big fluffy towel around my clean body and step into the room to find Miss Kara and Lawrence in deep conversation. My ears perk when I take in the distressed look on Miss Kara’s face, and I try to tune into what they’re saying, but when they see me they instantly separate.

  Miss Kara rushes to me and leads me to her grooming station. She sits me in front of her big shiny mirror and brushes out my long hair before she trims the split ends. Her tone is light and conversational, and we discuss things like we normally do, talking about everything and anything except for my time in the woods. I wonder if she’d open up to me if Lawrence wasn’t standing guard at the door.

  Once she has my hair dried, she stands me up and I see a hint of worry in her dark, chocolate eyes as she reaches for her most expensive perfume and holds it just above my head. As she gifts me with a generous squirt, I don’t take pleasure in the floral bouquet as it rains down on me from above. Instead I wonder why she’s being extra generous today. She usually only sprays me with perfume when I’m being sent out to capture or kill a dangerous drug lord, one who dared to cross the master.

  Since I know the master doesn’t plan on letting me out of the compound anytime soon, this show of generosity worries me. It also begs the question, is she being nice because she knows the cruelties that lie ahead of me? Is this her small way of trying to make things easier for the master’s rebellious wolf?

  Once she’s pleased with the state of my hair and makeup, she hands me a pair of jeans and a t-shirt—the master likes for his wolves to look presentable when we’re brought to him. I pull them on, noticing how snug they feel now that I have curves. I don’t, however, get shoes. Shoes have laces and I can make all kinds of weapons with laces.

  Miss Kara puts her hands on my shoulders and turns me toward the mirror. Her eyes narrow in thought, a careful scrutiny as her gaze moves over my body.

  “Look at you,” she says in a soft voice meant for my ears only.

  I stare at my reflection, which is almost unrecognizable—even to myself. As I wonder who that young girl is looking back, I note that my dark eyes, now lacking the inky black smudges beneath, no longer look stark against my skin. My long blonde hair looks healthy as it falls in wild waves around my face and I can’t help but think how much I look like an ordinary seventeen-year old girl. One who would easily fit into the crowd.

  But when I look closer, I see something else in my eyes, something that separates me from the teens I’d encountered when I was running in the national park.

  “You look different.”

  That statement catches me off guard and fills me with worry. The last thing I want is for anyone to notice a difference in me. In this prison survival means blending in.

  “I fed on wild game when I was lost in the woods,” I hurry out. “I’ve put on weight.”

  Miss Kara shakes her head, and her ponytail swishes from side to side, slashing against her coffee-colored cheeks. “No,” she says under her breath. “It’s more than that, Pride.”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t. Because I know she’s right. I also know that if she’s noticing the slight changes in me the master will, too. Which means I’ll have to work extra hard to desensitize and show no emotions in the face of the man I loathe.

  “Pride?” she asks with quiet concern.

  For the first time in my life I’m happy to hear Lawrence’s voice when he interjects. In a lighthearted tone he uses only in front of Miss Kara, he questions, “Is there a problem, Kara?”

  Miss Kara drops her hands and when she turns to him I grab an elastic band from her grooming station and stuff it into my pocket. I’m not sure what compelled me to do it. Perhaps it’s because of Sandy. Perhaps if I can fix her hair or show her some small gesture of kindness, she’ll see I’m not a selfish wolf who cares only about herself. Or maybe it reminds me of the girls I met while I was running in Olympic park, and that reminds me of freedom. And my mission to kill the master.

  “No problem, Lawrence,” Kara returns easily, her eyes cautioning me when she turns back to face me and fluffs my hair with a little too muc
h enthusiasm. “Just a few finishing touches and then we’re done.”

  But when I meet her glance in the mirror, and catch a whiff of her apprehension, I know she knows. She knows I’m going to take out the master. I tear my eyes away from hers because I can’t allow anyone’s fears to stand in my way.

  I step away from the grooming station, and without so much as a backward glimpse, I move toward Lawrence. Silence ensues as he hooks his chain to my collar, and after he pulls open the double doors we retrace our steps back down the hall.

  When we reach the main foyer, he doesn’t lead me to the master’s office in the west wing. Instead, we round the corner near the kitchen and take a back corridor until we come face to face with a heavy metal barrier.

  Lawrence punches a code and the door slides open, and despite the precarious situation, my ears perk, deciphering the distinct sounds associate with each button. I store that information in the back of my mind as I examine my surroundings. My stomach tightens as I take note of the long cold, cement tunnel ahead of me, one I’ve never entered before and didn’t know existed until now. Lawrence closes the heavy door behind us and the sound of his boots echoing off the walls sends shivers skittering down my spine.

  I have no idea where he’s taking me, and can’t help but wonder what cruelties await me when we get there.

  We come to the end of the hall, and stop in front of an elevator. Lawrence punches the button and when it arrives he shoves me inside. He puts his back to me as he punches in a code. He’s trying to hide his actions, but I listen intently and take note of the sounds. A moment later we’re dropping quickly, and I wonder just how far below the ground this elevator is taking us.

  When it finally stops and the doors ping open I feel almost breathless, but I think it has more to do with the scent of fresh blood in the air, then the sensation of falling.

  We turn a corner and walk up to another door, but before Lawrence reaches for the handle, he tugs on the collar of his T-shirt, and I can see the slight vibration in his hands. Despite the coldness in this dingy dungeon, beads of perspiration dot his skin and his chest rises and falls a little quicker.

  His odd behavior has my hackles spiking, and when I note the uneasy way he’s shifting on the balls of his feet, the way his Adam’s apple is bobbing crazily as if going down for the third count, I draw in the rancid scent of his fear, and prepare myself for the worst.

  As I fight down the chaos fighting for control inside me and desperately call on calm, I watch the handler run his damp palms through his hair. I realize that if he’s this afraid, then whatever lies beyond that door is not going to bode well for me. Lawrence pulls in air, and puts on an expressionless mask before he turns the knob and readies himself to face the demons that haunt him.

  When he finally pushes it open, the gruesome sight before me brings blistering, angry tears to my eyes. Hot, searing pain stabs at my heart and my throat aches painfully as I take in the horrific display.

  I dig deep and try not to show a reaction, try not to give away my emotions but there is nothing I can do to keep my wolf from howling, my mouth from gaping open. Wild black fury erupts inside me, and every instinct I have warns that my next move in this deadly game of control could mean the difference between life and death.

  Intense silence fills the room as all eyes turn on me. I struggle to keep my wolf leashed, struggle to stay standing when all I want to do is drop to the floor and weep, or better yet, shift and kill.

  Saliva pools beneath my tongue and my stomach clenches. As acrid vomit pushes into my throat I realize that for the first time in my life, I know what real fear is.

  6

  With my gaze locked on the man I intend to kill, I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood and wait for him to make the next move. As my stomach churns I force myself to breathe naturally, but when I draw air into my lungs, the scent of Logan’s warm blood fills my senses and floods me with a confusing mix of anger and dread.

  As the air ripples with tension, the aroma ripe and heady as it swirls around me, I realize I never should have agreed to this risky plan, never should have allowed Logan to place his trust in me.

  I suddenly feel so powerless in the face of such violence, so defenseless and vulnerable that I can feel the strength drain right out of me. As I weaken, I instantly hate Logan for believing in me, for putting his life in my hands.

  When my mate’s rich, familiar scent trickles through my bloodstream my wolf gives an animal cry and I know in a heartbeat that the master has found my breaking point.

  I wonder if he knows it, too.

  Some small part of me had to expect this to happen. Yet there was that other part of me, the part that hoped Logan would never have to face the master’s wrath. But I should have known better. After all, my orders were to bring the rogue back alive, and there was only one reason the master hadn’t killed the rebellious wolf on sight.

  Logan has information and the master had every intention of getting it from him, using any means possible. And while we knew that fact coming back into this dark place, knew things could go very well go down this way, it still doesn’t make the horrifying vision before me any easier to stomach.

  “Pride,” the master says, his tension palpable as he waves a hand toward the plastic chair across from his utilitarian desk, much different from the plush furnishings in his upstairs work station.

  I don’t speak. I simply move across the floor and gingerly lower myself into the hard chair as I listen to my heart thump wildly. Needing my focus more than I ever needed it in my entire life, I give myself a hard mental shake then peruse my surrounding, committing the entire dungeon to memory.

  Unlike the master’s luxurious office in the west wing, this one is icy cold. With no windows, the only source of light is coming from the single bulb overhead, a beaded chain dangling from the base. The walls are bare, the furnishing minimal, and the floor is equipped with drains, which makes this ugly space feel more like a meat locker than anything else.

  Determination etched on his face and his voice lacking any sort of tolerance for me today, he announces, “It seems I have a problem, Pride.”

  I don’t answer. I’m not sure if I can. With only the narrow metal desk separating us, I neatly fold my hands in my lap and stare straight ahead.

  His chair scrapes the cement floor as he stands and everything about him screams danger. He walks to a small bar behind his desk and pours amber alcohol into a glass. I swallow as I watch him drain the liquid, then I nearly leap out of my chair when he flings the tumbler across the room, the glass shattering into a million tiny pieces.

  “No more games, Pride,” he warns, and acting purely on animal instincts I jump to my feet when he steps in front of me. A gun presses against the back of my head, and I don’t need to turn to know Lawrence’s lips are curled into a sneer, just waiting for me to make a wrong move. My jaw flexes painfully as I clench down hard enough to break teeth.

  “No more games,” I manage to choke out, finding it most difficult to keep my voice from sounding strained, to keep my body from giving away my raw emotions when Logan is less than five feet away from me, his eyes swollen, his jaw shattered, his beaten and battered body hanging from iron manacles.

  The master perches himself on the end of his desk and nods to my seat. His voice levels out considerably when he says, “Good girl, Pride. Now I need you to tell me everything you know.”

  “I will,” I say and carefully drop down into my seat and push as far back in the chair as I can, but I still can’t seem to put enough distance between us.

  “Pride…” At the sound of Logan’s labored voice my gut twists with equal measures of grief and fear. Feeling lightheaded as my blood rushes to my feet, I listen to his breathing for a moment. It’s heavy and fractured, like he’s broken a rib or worse, punctured a lung. I blink back the tears I cannot afford to show as panic invades my heart. If he doesn’t soon shift and heal himself, I could very well lose him.

  K
nowing I can’t let that happen, that I’ll use any means possible to save him, I steal a quick glance at the boy who brought so much into my life. I can feel him reaching out to me, warning me to stay strong, to give away nothing. But how can I stay strong in the face of such ruthless torture?

  How can I not?

  The master jerks his head toward Logan. “I want to know where his pack is.”

  I take a moment to think about what Logan would want me to do, what he’d want me to say. While I can’t bear for anything to happen to him, I know I can’t let him down either. We’ve been through too much together for that. I pause for a long moment and consider Logan’s state of mind and the number of bruises coloring his body. I understand the words I deliver next can put an end to his pain and suffering. But they could also damage an entire community.

  My hands tighten into fists and I exhale a long slow breath, knowing what I have to do—what Logan would want me to do—but not liking it just the same.

  “I have no idea where his pack is, or even if he has one,” I answer with quiet confidence even though everything inside me is screaming in agony, my wolf begging me to kill the master and free my mate, but with the gun pointed at my head I know I’ll be dead before I ever reach his throat. And if Logan can stay strong in the face of the master, then no matter how much it rips me apart inside, I have to stay strong, too.

  For all our sakes.

  The master’s steely voice cuts through me when he grips my chin and his gaze is cynical when he says, “I thought we agreed on no more games.”

  “We did,” I say unflinchingly as his fingers bite into my chin. He turns my face from side to side, studying me darkly, looking for some telltale sign of my deceit.

  When Logan takes a deep shuddering breath, I know he can taste my fear. I stiffen, and work to harden myself, to leash my wolf because I can’t show worry. Can’t let the master know the bond we share. But it does give my wolf a measure of comfort to know that someday I’ll let her off her leash, and let her do exactly what the master taught her to do.