Metal cut into his skin.
Blood rolled down the inside of his forearm.
His muscles flickered in protest. Another drop fell, missing steel to splatter across the nape of his neck. A chill worked its way down his spine, following the awful slide of cold water. Not optimal. Nowhere near good. In a perfect world, he would’ve broken the steel cuffs and moved. Taken self-preservation out for a spin and a giant step to his right. Out of the water’s path. Out of the line of fire. Away from the entire situation—and all the pain. A lovely thought after the fact. Too little, too late as it turned out.
Rodin and his crew had done it right. Set up the ambush like pros—striking in the narrow alleyway, hitting him and Haider with forty thousand volts each, obliterating all hope of shifting into dragon form and getting airborne. A smart move on Rodin’s part. A boneheaded move on Gage’s. He’d known the Archguard jerkoffs would play dirty. Shit, he’d expected it. Had prepared for it, but . . .
Gage huffed. His bad along with the blame. He’d made a fatal mistake and taken the bait. One damsel in distress being attacked in a dark alley. A mere moment of distraction. A single teeny-tiny mistake and—
The assholes had struck.
Before he’d registered the threat.
If he had, he’d be halfway home by now. Hours from Seattle and the Nightfury lair. Safe. Secure. In the bosom of his family, not here: spread-eagle, hands and feet cuffed to a vertical grill, awaiting the next round of torture inside a death squad’s kill room.
Multiple floor drains told the tale.
So did the scent of other warriors’ blood.
Males came here to die. Got strung up inside the underground tomb all the time. Wrists and ankles shackled with steel cuffs. Limbs stretched wide across the large grate bolted to the wall. Blood flowing like rivers while electricity coursed through the metal rack. Standing with his back against the diagonal crisscross of bars, Gage tested his restraints again. No good. After three hours in hell, he was too weak. Electric shock ensured he stayed that way, stealing his strength, shutting down his magic, destroying any hope of escape.
A tough spot for any warrior to be in.
Someone turned a tap. Metal squeaked as the nozzle spun. Water drizzled into a steady sprinkle, coating his skin and the cables clamped to the sides of the rack above his head. Electricity snapped. Sparks flew, cascading into brilliant shards. The pop-pop-pop rattled the grill. Steel bars vibrated behind him, zapping Gage with another shot of high voltage. His muscles contracted as his body shuddered and his mind recoiled. He bit down on a groan, refusing to show any weakness. Or surrender. Not that his bravado mattered. Gage knew it. So did Zidane—the asshole with a nasty disposition and a whole table full of torture tools. Resistance was nothing but pride in another form. Sooner or later, the brutal claw of electrical current would become too much. He’d pass out. Lose his ability to fight, and succumb to the pain.
Just as Haider had done.
One eye swollen shut, Gage cracked the other open. The room wavered, moving into, then out of, focus. He gritted his teeth. Fucking pricks. Archguard assholes. They’d made him watch. Had kept him weak, but cognizant while Haider suffered. While Zidane—Rodin’s heir—wielded brass knuckles and knives, brutalizing his best friend. The memory clawed at his heart. Watching Haider be hurt had been terrible. The worst thing he’d ever been forced to endure. Now he couldn’t push the awful images from his mind. Or accept that he’d been unable to protect his friend. Add that colossal mind fuck to the fact he didn’t know where Zidane had taken Haider after he’d finished torturing him and—
Anguish tightened its grip.
Gage squeezed his good eye shut and breathed through the pain. He must stay steady. Remain even and ready, able to attack fast and strike hard when the enemy least expected. Otherwise, he wouldn’t make it out alive.
And neither would Haider.
Eyes closed, head bowed, Gage curled his hands into fists. The twin cuffs cut deeper. Blood trickled from his wrists, mixing with water, dribbling down the inside of his arms. He ignored the slow roll and stayed on task. Focus. Intent. Skill. Three things he owned in spades and put to work, calling on what remained of his magic. Weak, but still cognizant, his dragon half rose, sharpening his senses. Sound ricocheted inside his head. He listened harder, tracking his captors’ movements inside the torture chamber. The duo stood somewhere off to his left. No doubt in front of the table laid out with sharp tools. He heard the soft rustle of clothing. Each rasp of boot soles against the concrete floor. The awful scrape of a knife being drawn over a whetstone.
He clenched his teeth. God forbid the jerkoffs use a dull blade to cut him open.
Another swipe of steel against stone. “Which do you want next, Zidane?”
“The pliers,” Zidane said, an edge of anticipation in his tone. “The Nightfury has too many teeth. What say you, Ferland?”
“Start with his canines. It’ll hurt more.”
“No doubt. Do you want the honor of pulling the first or—”
“Go ahead.” Steel teeth snapped, breaking through the quiet as Ferland tested the tool. “I enjoy watching you work. True artistry.”
Zidane laughed. “Reset the camera, Ferland.”
Gage tracked Ferland across the dungeon in his periphery. Blond hair glinting in the low light, the male stopped beside the tripod holding a high-tech camera. Stifling a snarl, Gage swallowed the metallic taste of his own blood. Sick bastards. The pair took cruelty to new heights, recording each session to watch later. No doubt in the comfort of whatever pleasure pavilion the duo called home. Rodin’s, no doubt. The leader of the Archguard spoiled the members of his death squad and his firstborn son in particular.
Gage let his good eye drift closed again.
Just for a moment. All he needed was a second. A single slice of time to regroup and get ready. But as the pair discussed camera angles—adjusting the tripod, resetting the floodlights, lighting him up for maximum effect—his resolve slipped. Not a lot. Barely even a little. The slight shift, however, signaled trouble. Doubt pushed him off his moorings and . . . ah, shit. Not good. His defenses were starting to crack. Which led to one inescapable question. How much more could he endure? So far, he’d withstood it all without making a sound. The brutality grounded him, fed him purpose, telling him the longer he held out, the longer he and Haider would stay alive.
He frowned.
Well, at least, he hoped so. It was hard to tell. Zidane liked to color outside the lines. Usual limits didn’t apply to him. He was an extremist, willing to do anything for his sire. Which meant . . . Gage swallowed in apprehension. He might’ve misread the situation. Maybe Zidane really was that stupid. Maybe the dickwad only planned to keep one of them alive to obtain what he wanted. He cursed under his breath. The theory made sense. Not that it mattered. Guesswork meant fuck-all while strung up and about to be filleted like a fish. And yet, even under the fog of uncertainty, the facts remained the same. Zidane might be sadistic, but he was also goal oriented. He wouldn’t waste an opportunity. The song and dance inside the kill room served a purpose. The prick needed information to support his sire’s mission.
The kind of intel only a Nightfury warrior could provide.
Zidane was gambling, betting big to win huge. Gage understood the game. Was even better at assessing the odds than the males holding him hostage. Which meant he already knew what Zidane didn’t. He would never talk. Never give up the goods on his pack.
Or the location of his lair in Seattle.
The Nightfury pack meant everything to him: a second chance, true brotherhood, the stability of safety inside a real home with males who valued him. And whom he loved in return. So fuck it. He’d pay the ultimate price to protect his brothers. Would die in a medieval torture tomb. Amid death and squalor. Deep underground. Under the watchful eyes of a death squad commanded by Rodin—unless he found a
way to turn the tables and escape.
Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, Gage lifted his head. Frayed nerve endings screamed in protest. Fatigue and blood loss converged, attacking what little remained of his strength. Reaching deep, he dredged the bottom of his energy reserves and, gritting his teeth, leveled his chin.
Blood dripped into his good eye.
Gage blinked the red ooze away and glared at the male tormenting him. “I’m going to kill you, Zidane. The second I am free, you’re nothing but ash.”
“Bold words, Nightfury.”
“Remember them, asshole. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“Such hubris, Gage.” Zidane’s mouth curved a moment before he returned his attention to the tabletop. He scanned the collection of torture tools, then reached out and trailed his fingertips over a row of pliers. Serrated tips. Crooked ends. Razor-sharp blades made for cutting. His fingers danced over each implement. Eeny-meeny-miney-mo. The calculated touches spoke volumes. His enemy was savoring the moment. Wanted Gage to imagine the worst and dread its delivery. “I almost like that about you.”
Pausing mid-caress, the prick picked up a pair of slim pliers. He tested the pointed tips with the pad of his thumb. As he hummed and palmed a wooden bit used to wedge a male’s mouth open, Gage snarled. Bad move. He knew it the second the growl left his throat. Too bad he couldn’t help it. Or call the sound back. No matter how many times he told himself not to react—that Zidane fed on fear—he admitted the bastard knew what he was doing.
Anticipation of pain, after all, always trumped its reality.
“Your choice, Nightfury.” Dark eyes shimmering, Zidane turned away from the table. “A slow death—or a fast one? Give me what I want and I’ll show mercy.”
“Bullshit.”
Zidane huffed, the beginning of a smile in his eyes. “How very astute of you. Nightfuries never lack brains, I’ll give you that. Although . . .” Rotating the pliers in his palm, he raised a brow. “You may want to consider your friends. You talk, I won’t take another run at them. A swift death? Or unending pain and humiliation—for each of you? You decide.”
Heart thumping, Gage’s breath caught in the back of his throat. Gaze narrowed on Zidane, he frowned. Friends? Had the asshole really just said friends . . . as in, of the plural variety? What the hell was Zidane talking about? Was he tossing out threats with no substance? Or was the news flash something to be concerned about? Hunting for the truth, he glanced at Ferland. The smug expression on the jerkoff’s face gave the truth away.
Holy God. Zidane wasn’t lying.
The Archguard held another warrior captive. Maybe more than one. Hell, there could be a whole host of males Gage knew and loved locked up somewhere nearby. The idea sent him into a tailspin. As the whirl got going, he dug in and stopped the mental slide. Worry wouldn’t solve anything. Thinking straight and staying calm, however, just might, so . . .
Gage forced his mind away from panic. His brows collided. Wait a minute. Hold everything. The conclusion didn’t make any sense. None of the other Nightfuries were in Prague. Well, at least, as far as he knew. Six days of radio silence—of being locked in a dungeon and unable to warn his brothers—didn’t inspire confidence. Neither did the triumph in Zidane’s eyes. Which meant—
Bastian had interfered.
Gage swallowed a curse, then started to pray, hoping Bastian had stayed out of it. Too much to wish for? Probably. No, strike that. Switch it to definitely. His commander never sat on the sidelines. No matter how volatile the situation, Bastian found a way to protect his pack. So yeah. Absolutely. Which meant B would never leave them behind. He was too loyal—too smart—to allow things to run their course without stacking the deck. The male always set up contingencies. A plan formed in advance—perhaps a secret alliance made in order to get them out of Prague if the situation went sideways.
“Who else do you have?” Gage asked, fighting to keep his voice even.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“The whole point of the question, asshole. Christ, you’re a dull blade.”
Fury lining his face, Zidane turned toward him. He pointed the pliers at him, threatening Gage from four feet away. “Careful, Nightfury. My patience wears thin.”
Gage shrugged, raising one shoulder even though it hurt like hell. “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll give you something in return.”
“And what would that be?”
“The information you need for the answer I want,” Gage said, lying through his teeth. The only thing he’d be giving Zidane was a fist to the face followed by a broken neck. “Come on, Zidane. You like games—play.”
“I do like games. Yours, however—I’m not interested in playing.” Zidane tightened his grip on the pliers. Pointed teeth snapped together. The sharp sound rippled, joining the drone of dripping water as he took a step toward Gage. Anticipation in his eyes, he raised the wooden bit and smirked at him. “Prepare to lose your canines, Nightfury. Rest assured, I will enjoy hearing you scream when—”
Steel banged against stone.
The reverberation thundered through the room. A metal handle twisted, then clicked. Hinges creaked. The door swung wide, giving Gage a view into a dark corridor. A moment later, a young Dragonkind male—one yet to go through the change—stuck his head into the chamber. Pale eyes landed on Gage, widened in shock, then skipped away. Gage swallowed a huff. An innocent man-child in the pit of hell. Talk about ironic. It would’ve been laughable had he not been hurting so much. The absurdity of it, however, hardly registered on his sliding scale. He didn’t give a damn about the new arrival’s reaction. Or the fear he spotted in the male’s gaze.
Only one thing mattered.
The interruption was a good omen. It might give him a reprieve. More time to come up with a plan. Another chance to make good on his promise to Haider and get them both out alive.
Standing on the threshold, the male swallowed. “My lord?”
“What is it?” Zidane asked, his tone sharp.
“Your sire, my lord,” the newcomer whispered, head bowed, feet shuffling just outside the door. “He wishes you at the morning meal.”
Zidane glanced over his shoulder. “When does he expect me?”
“Now.”
With a growl, Zidane tossed the wooden bit. The mouthpiece bounced across the tabletop, jumping across razor-sharp blades. He watched it skip over the hardware a moment, then switched focus. His gaze settled back on Gage. “Saved by the breakfast bell, Nightfury. Lucky you.”
“Yeah, lucky me,” Gage murmured, sarcasm out in full force, even though he meant every word, ’cause . . . thank God. He needed a break. The universe had granted one, along with a prime nugget of information. The morning meal. Nine o’clock in most Dragonkind lairs. The intel gave him hope and something else too—the hour and a loose time frame. Two hours—three at most—until the meal ended. Enough time to break free, find Haider, and get the hell out of Rodin’s underground lair. “Guess I’ll see you later.”
“Count on it.” Boots thudding against concrete, Zidane strode toward the door. The man-child sidestepped, making room for his lord to cross the threshold. Zidane met the younger male’s gaze. “Osgard.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Stay and help Ferland.”
Osgard nodded.
Busy with the camera, Ferland looked up in surprise. “With what?”
“Turn off the electricity and get him down,” Zidane said. “Put our little bird back in his cage.”
Ferland frowned. “But—”
“Let him recuperate while we eat.” Half in the chamber, half out, Zidane threw his friend a sidelong look, then refocused on Gage. He sighed, the sound full of longing. Gage tensed. The bastard hummed, no doubt enjoying the flex of heavy muscle. Pride in his eyes, his gaze roamed the stab wounds crisscrossing Gage’s torso, strayed t
o the burn marks ringing the base of his throat, and took in all the blood streaking his chest. The twisted SOB smiled. “It’s no fun torturing a weakling. They never scream as loud.”
A truism. One Gage knew well.
He’d witnessed countless interrogations—more than one execution too—while living under his sire’s roof. Enough to understand cause and effect. And what the pleasure Zidane took in hearing others scream meant. The prick was more than just cruel. He was a sexual sadist, a male who became aroused by another’s pain. Terrific information to have going forward. Particularly since he wouldn’t be around when Zidane returned. The plan was already in motion, taking shape inside his head. It wouldn’t be long now. Mere moments until—
The hum of electricity powered down.
His muscles relaxed, making his body twitch. Gage groaned as comfort came calling and . . . oh, sweet, sweet relief. It was almost as good as revenge. Almost, but not quite. His get-even gene wouldn’t give up the goods. Or concede defeat. The entire Archguard would pay for his pain, but more than that . . .
For daring to hurt Haider.
Keys jiggled as Ferland came forward to unlock his shackles.
Pretending exhaustion, Gage let his head lull and his muscles go lax. Ferland stopped in front of him and reached for the steel cuff holding his left ankle in place. The lock clicked. The first shackle swung open. One down, three more to go. His mouth curved. Fantastic. Absolutely perfect. The male might not know it yet, but Ferland wouldn’t be enjoying the morning meal. Or anything else for that matter. He’d be dead long before Zidane picked up his utensils and shoveled the first bite into his fucking mouth.
Chapter Five
Wings spread wide, Bastian rocketed over thick forest. The woodlands groaned beneath him. Huge trees bowed in deference, narrow tops brushing the ground before springing into action, launching pine needles and loads of snow into the night sky. Debris mushroomed into a messy cloud behind him. A stray branch flipped up and over. He ducked, avoiding a face full of fuck you, and glanced over his shoulder. The wooden limb whirled over the spikes running along his spine and—
Fury of Obsession (Dragonfury Series Book 5) Page 5
