by P. Jameson
The hands were gone from her and a door slamming made her jump. The sound of a lock engaging made her stomach go queasy. A lock meant she was trapped.
Carefully, she eased her gaze upward. She found his feet first. A pair of black construction boots that had seen better days. Then his legs. Jean clad. Muscular and long. She skipped over his waist and moved to his chest. He was broad. Big arms. He could overpower her easily. Already had. But the realization settled in, that he could do whatever he wanted to her, and there’d be no stopping him.
It was sheer terror in her veins.
Her panicked breaths came sharp and fast, a gasping staccato she couldn’t stop. Tears beat at her eyelids as her gaze finally landed on his cruel one.
He was going to hurt her.
Nausea doubled her over as she wrapped her arms around her middle.
After so many years, she was surprised she could still cry at all. Was it the combination of being free, but always locked in these torturous dreams? Like she’d taken a piece of her captivity with her.
I’ll never let you go. You can never escape, my doll, because I’m already right here, her captor had said, tapping one gnarly finger against her temple. Maybe he was right. Maybe what she’d been through could never be cleansed from her mind.
“You going to hurl?” the stranger asked.
Did he have a name? The man in the lounge called him something… Racket? Should she remember it? Or just forget. Fade out now, before she started feeling pain. Go to that place inside her that she escaped to when it got bad.
Her stomach heaved, but there wasn’t anything in it to toss.
“Shit,” he muttered, stepping around her and then returning with a wastebasket.
He shoved it under her face just as her middle clenched again. To her surprise something did come up. Bile and stomach acid and the little bit of water she’d been given just before escaping.
“What are you on?” he asked.
She spit into the trash can, coughing and sputtering out, “on?”
“You an addict? Or did someone slip you something?”
She frowned, hugging the can close, just in case. She shook so bad she wondered if she would be able to keep her feet under her.
“Not…” she breathed deep, trying to make her voice work. “Not an addict. Clean now.”
“Bullshit.” The words left his lips simply. Not angry. Not frustrated.
“C-clean as I could be. I only took what I was given.”
“What was it?”
“Don’t know. Something in my water. But I…” Should she tell him this part? “I built up a tolerance. Started faking the effects so he wouldn’t up my dose.”
The stranger frowned so hard his forehead rippled like a stone in water. “How long?”
“H-how long what?”
“Since your last dose.”
“I don’t know… I… don’t know.”
The stranger came closer, invading her space like he could get the answers from just being near. Like they’d jump from her skin to his and crawl into his brain.
“Was it yesterday? Morning, afternoon? You must remember something. Lunch or dinner?”
Something ominous swept over her. This was all wrong. No one in her nightmares asked questions. They just took. Stole. Hurt. Crippled.
Blinking, she tried to understand the warning boulder that settled in the pit of her stomach. Her instincts, once pristine and honed, were trying to tell her something.
“What day is it?”
“Monday.”
Her dreams never had time. They just were. No day, no hour. No AM or PM.
Fear was clawing her to shreds inside, because… this was starting to feel real. The stranger, the warehouse, the way he talked to her. None of it had that fuzzy quality she’d learned to rely on.
And… if this wasn’t a dream, it meant… she was a captive. Again. It meant she had only escaped, to be really and truly captured again by someone else.
“No,” she whispered, letting despair rip her apart.
There was no dream to wake from. There was no getting farther away from Memphis. Getting away from her captor. They’d only changed faces.
“No.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes closed and praying when she opened them, she’d be somewhere else. Anywhere else but in a locked room she couldn’t escape from.
But when she chanced it, the cruel blond stranger was even closer. Nearly touching her.
Too close, too close.
It was too much. Something inside snapped, broke in a way she desperately needed.
And her world went black.
Chapter Three
Ratchet watched the female collapse in slow motion. Like a skyscraper being demolished. Lunging forward, he managed to catch her just before she faceplanted on the floor.
“Shit.”
She was small. Weighed practically nothing. Cradling her body in one arm, he knelt, tipping her head back to see her face.
Like this, she looked completely different. At peace again. The way she’d been when he first found her in the shed. No fear, no panic. No haunted shadows and shakes.
He let his gaze linger, taking in her features. Small forehead, large eyes rimmed in long lashes. A narrow nose that came to a point above bow-shaped lips. Delicate jaw. He was no authority on beauty. Didn’t much care what women looked like. Or hadn’t for a long time. But he could see this female was quite pretty under all the dirt.
His heart pounded in his chest. Leftover adrenaline from narrowly avoiding Felix in the shed and chancing bringing her inside where the others could see her. Thankfully, Fang was too drunk to be pushy. He’d let it go before catching anyone else’s attention.
Ratchet ground his molars until his jaw cracked.
He would have fought him, he realized. He would’ve fought Fang off to keep this woman safe. Would’ve been beat to hell for it, but at least he would have gone down fighting.
Luckily it hadn’t come to that. And now he had to be smart about this. The Alley Cats had relied on muscle and intimidation for so long. That’s how they’d been outsmarted by a curse two years ago. And now Ratchet was going to outsmart them until his female could be safe.
He brushed her hair back. It was cut crooked. Chunky, like it had been hacked at with a knife. Curving his palm around one cheek awkwardly, he patted it, trying to stir her.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Wake up, woman.”
But she didn’t respond.
He shook her harder.
“Come on. Need you to wake up.”
He was ninety nine percent sure she was detoxing from whatever she’d been given. Something she’d been given repeatedly, if what she’d told him was true. He needed to get some water in her. Clean her up a little. Let her sleep so her body could get used to being without the drug. He’d put her in his bed and watch over her.
But he remembered the way she’d stiffened in the lounge when he pretended they were together. She didn’t like being touched.
The realization turned to sadness in his veins.
Touch was the one thing that had anchored him throughout his life. He’d had it different than the others. A little. He had a mama that fought to stick around through all the bullshit the clan put them through. She hadn’t left like so many others had. Or blotted out reality with alcohol and downers. Or turned a blind eye to the abuses of their leader before Felix. She’d known her place, known she couldn’t stop what they’d turn her son into. But… for every fist Ratchet took, for every lash on his back, there was a soft touch from her. Like she’d hoped the one could balance out the other.
She was wrong, but at least she had tried.
She was human and soft. But for once, that didn’t seem like a bad thing.
He stared down at the female in his arms, weighing out his next decision. Her shoulders were thin and felt frail. Her skin was pale and gray-tinged. Malnourished, the voice inside him murmured. She needed help. More help than he could give her.
> Rising, he carried her to the bed and put her down on his pillow. He unlaced her boots and eased them from her feet, finding them bare underneath. And bloodied like her fingers.
Little thing, what happened to you?
Something fiercely protective came over him. A burning in his gut that made him hot from the inside. It was righteous anger and sympathy and territorial instinct all rolled into one flaming emotion behind the cage of his ribs.
A feeling he wasn’t used to. And didn’t fucking like.
But also… felt necessary.
It was powerful. In the way his cat used to be. Except it didn’t feel sick like his lion did.
Carefully, he tucked the thick blanket around her, and stepped back to pull his cell phone from his pocket. He touched the button that would dial a familiar number. He could go downstairs and find who he was looking for, but he wouldn’t chance leaving the female alone.
The phone rang twice in his ear before it clicked through.
“Mom,” he cut out before she could say anything. “I need your help.”
***
Leah Golding was used to the shifters needing her. Especially in recent years since their animals were locked inside.
When she was young and the world seemed bright, she’d fallen for a bad man. He’d fallen for her too, but no female came between him and his clan.
Brothers above all. Loyalty above all.
Leaving hadn’t been an option. The son he gave her, belonged to the clan. And she wasn’t giving her kid up. She wasn’t leaving her innocent baby to the monsters. So she’d done the only thing a desperate mom could do.
She got smart. Got tough.
Became one of the clan so she could hold her son after the harsh lessons he was taught to prepare for his future as an Alley Cat. She’d spread her love out to all the children, hoping it’d make a difference somehow.
But looking at how they’d ended up… she realized it hadn’t.
They’d all die early just like their fathers. Too many enemies. And no way to fight them.
She swallowed back her fear, the nasty lump in her throat, the ache of failing her only born and the ones she’d adopted into her heart.
Mom, I need your help.
Thomas needed her now.
She’d watched him spiral down, down, down helpless to change any of it. Over the years, all she could do was offer her love, and damn it, she believed in the power of love. But somehow it had never been enough.
If he was asking for her now, it was important.
Climbing the stairs from the office to the second floor, she grit her teeth at the booming music coming from the lounge. It was dark outside, so the party was in full swing. If you could call it that. The clan’s nightly ritual of booze and babes. A Forget Shit Party. Couldn’t solve their problems, couldn’t live with being assholes with no animal to justify it, so their answer was to drink through their money.
She’d told Felix their holdings were depleting. He didn’t seem to care. Or couldn’t maybe. He was sicker than all the others. As if his human was so weak it was literally nothing without the jaguar. Pale, gaunt, with a broken gaze. The only hint of the dangerous man he used to be, was his mouth. He could still cut deep with that weapon.
And his heart. Still black, even cut in half.
Straightening her shoulders, she pushed into the lounge, studiously ignoring the people in half state of dress. The ones stumbling drunk. The ones humping in a corner. Her son’s room was in the hall past the common area. She was almost there.
“Mama Kitty!” A slurred voice rose above the noise. It was what the boys called her. Half in affection, half in derision. Mama, like an endearment. Kitty to remind her she was human and lower than them.
Or… had been lower.
They were even now. More even than they cared to admit.
She looked up to find Fang and Monster lurching in her direction.
“Coming to party with us this time?” Fang asked while Monster tipped a bottle of Jack completely upside down into his mouth.
She gave them her easy smile. The one she’d perfected over the years to replace her real one. “Not this time, boys.”
“Aw, helllllll,” Monster groused. “You say that every time though.”
She planted one hand on her hip and cocked an eyebrow at the couple humping in the corner. “You really want an old lady bustin’ your balls tonight? You know how I feel about what you boys do up here.”
Monster gave her a toothy grin. His face was scarred all to hell, but he sure had a winning smile. It reminded her of how he was as a young. Happy as a child is, even if their life is shit. Before he’d been broken like a mare to do the clan’s bidding. It always took a little while for that innocence to fade. She’d watched it happen too many times. Taking the soft, workable putty heart of a kid, smashing it with brutal hands until it resembled something grotesque, and hardening it with fire until it couldn’t be molded into anything else.
Over the years, there had been more young born to the clan. So many women, just like her, with bleeding hearts for the bad boys. Bred, to keep the clan growing.
But she’d managed to get them—and their half-breed babies—all into hiding without the clan realizing it.
Sooooo many runaways. What a shame. That’s what she’d told Felix. Commiserated with him over their losses. But even if she’d been caught, saving any would have been worth it.
There would be so many more young lives for the Cats to ruin if it weren’t for her.
“Now, Mama…” Monster drawled. “You ain’t old. You’re maybe an eight on the MILF scale.”
“Yeah, I’d do ya,” Fang agreed, swaying on his feet.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m honored, really. But no thanks. Your dick is like Forrest Gump, it’s been everywhere.”
“Got a point there,” Monster agreed.
Fang smirked, belched. “I’m not seeing it as a bad thing.”
They tried to bump fists and missed, shrugging it off and clearing their throats.
“Yeah, yeah. Alright, boys. I’m outta here. Reminder though: if you toss your cookies in the hall, I’m not cleaning it up.”
She pushed past them, and got three steps before a sharp, “Mama,” stopped her. She shook off the chills that slid up her spine. This voice wasn’t slurred. Wasn’t five shades to the wind. Sometimes they were better when they were drunk. How fucking sad was that.
She twisted to find Felix, the clan’s leader, near the stairs. Once power seeped from his pores like a sponge. He’d ruled with something worse than an iron fist. A razor claw, a savage heart. Now he was a mere shade of his former self, but he could still induce fear, if only residual. A memory of past brutalities.
His breath was heavy, like he’d run a marathon, and he swayed, pushing one palm into the wall to stay steady. But his steely eyes were clear. Sharp. Knowing.
He narrowed them at her. “You been messing around in the shed today?”
Leah frowned. “Do I look like a raccoon? Shed’s full of trash. No reason for me to go digging in it.”
“Not trash,” Skittles argued, climbing the stairs behind him. His brightly colored tattoos had earned him the nickname. And Fang liked to “help” him out in the ladies department by telling girls they should taste the rainbow. “Trash barrels,” he corrected. “We don’t keep trash just lying around.”
“Trash barrels that are no longer being used and could be dumped off. So… trash. And still, not a raccoon.”
Felix sighed heavily. “Is that a no?”
“That’s a no,” she confirmed. And it was true mostly. She hadn’t needed to use the shed for over a year now.
He and Skittles shared a look. Felix shook his head, grumbling, and stalked off toward the liquor. Skittles shrugged and went in the other direction, plopping down on a ratty leather couch.
She’d have to keep her ears open for whatever had put them on alert.
Pushing into the hall was a relief. Being around the shift
ers always felt like an axe could fall at any moment. She held her breath, faked her cool, waiting for shit to hit the fan.
Thirty years of that feeling. And she would spend the rest of her years feeling it too. It was her penance for bringing a child into the twisted Alley Cat world. It wasn’t what she’d wanted for her life, but she didn’t mind paying the cost too much because it was the way things should be.
The only way to right a wrong was to deal with the consequences. And she had wronged her son by having him. Even if she didn’t realize it at the time.
She knocked on Thomas’s door, anxious about what would be on the other side. She’d stitched him up more times than she could count. Bandaged wounds. Found him sick over the toilet, passed out on the floor, angry and punching the wall… what would it be today? What horror was he facing that he’d actually asked for her this time?
His hurried footsteps approached. Not stumbling. Not drunk. Okay.
The door opened a crack and his snarling face appeared. Her Thomas was handsome. He had her blond hair, and blue eyes. But damn, he had his father’s demeanor. His father’s mean-ass smirk. She imagined what he would have looked like if he’d been raised anywhere else. No permanent frown probably. No darkness under his eyes. No scars on his back.
“You alone?” he hissed.
“Of course.”
The door slid open just enough for her to walk through.
The room was dark compared to the hall, and it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they did, she scanned the room, trying to get some idea of what was wrong. Nothing was broken or out of place. She looked her son over. No broken skin, no new bruises or busted bones.
“Thomas, what is it? What do you need—” But her voice cut off as her gaze finally landed on the bed.
Tucked into the covers was a dark-haired female. What Leah could see of her was dirty and bruised. Specks of blood edged her mouth. Leah knew what caused that. Split lip. A smack when she got out of line. She was out cold. No movement at all.
