She'd never seen a black person, and asked us if he looked like that because he'd burned his skin like toast. Like, really.
As you can see, I'm probably not going to be scoring points in my small-minded community, not with the heavily Christian atmosphere, the lack of interaction, and the strong desire to stay exactly where we are and spread our flags all along the establishments.
I wasn't really a good Christian, though. Middle School and High School, I dated a few guys in secret, and sold my virginity to my third boyfriend for five hundred dollars.
After that, I saw a potential and lucrative way to earn money. Every week in the large town, I'd flash my fake I.D card and prowl around for sex, trying to sell myself to others for money. I didn't wear protection the first time, but I made sure to keep a supply of condoms in my pocket when the second guy I was with said that I wouldn't get pregnant if we stood up when doing it, because of gravity. He also said that if I was worried, he could pull out and come over my stomach instead.
Rather than tell him he was a moron, because he was paying three hundred for this, I decided to risk it, knowing that I was on my period down time. Not that it can stop the persistent little wrigglers, but it did give me the resolve to give the middle finger up to men's excuses, and bring my own form of protection.
Word got around, my reputation fell, but I had over seven thousand in my bank account by the time I hit eighteen, so I didn't care. There was always someone to fuck in the central town of Wyden, plenty of horny basement dwellers who couldn't get their rocks off any other way than beating off at porn videos.
I enjoyed sex as well – not just as an opportunity to start saving up for a house, because you know, ultra-capitalist society and all. It became a kind of sport for me. I wanted to be the best, to have the guy's eyeballs roll to the backs of their heads as I rode them or arched my back. I wanted them to shiver in lust when I whispered for them to fuck me in their ears. I started experimenting, but very few were willing to dip so low in their sexual forays. Bondage and blindfolding was about anyone's limits.
Of course, my dear, deeply Christian father found out about it one day when the son of one of his beer drinking buddies snitched on me, and my father got so livid, his face purpled, and I honestly thought he'd explode. Henry didn't want an imperfect whore of a daughter, and he threatened to have me exorcised to get rid of the demon under my skin. I kid you not.
If only he knew the devilry I got up to from the online e-reader platforms the internet provided me with. How in Hell do you learn such carnal sins? Like Satan had implanted the thought into my brain one day and set me up for a lifetime of nooky.
I cried when he locked me outside the house. He didn't take it well when I tried to explain about the money, that I was treating it like a job, because don't we all sell something of ourselves to others, anyway? Our minds, our time, our bodies?
But he locked me out in the cold and the dark. Confused, I then wandered down the dark street, intending to walk to my best friend's house, preparing to text her that I might actually be homeless – when the man came from the shadows.
I wasn't prepared for it, focused on my phone as I was. He slammed into me from the side and clamped a cloth over my mouth and nose, one that smelled weird, like disinfectant.
Chloroform. It dragged me into unconsciousness, and away from my mother and father.
And it put me in a lineup with several other women, all of them terrified and confused, whilst hungry eyes devoured them.
It turned out that my father and mother's hateful viewpoint on the shifters, and the community's abject fear of them turned out to be justified. They did steal. They did traffic. And now I'm surrounded by them.
I'm Elle Anderson, and it looks like I'm paying for my sins.
Waking up had been disorientating and confusing. I'd been in the back of a van with two other girls, one of whom I vaguely recognized from one of the night clubs in Weyten. She possessed cascading blonde hair like me, though a little lighter in color, and strange to my curly. She had luminous blue eyes, too, and I had simple, light brown ones, a boring shade which I despised.
The other girl, slumped into a ball and sobbing, was some dark-haired goth chick, her black makeup smeared upon her face, her blue platform shoes poking out of a long, black dress. I remember wanting to ask her if she was a Satanist, because my father said that women who dressed like that were clearly under his spell, but she pretty much sobbed herself into sleep, leaving me with a blonde who didn't want to talk.
It gave me time to process, to try and understand what was happening – though my information only clarified itself, once I got bundled out of the van.
We were deep in some kind of mountain range, obviously near the edge of North Dakota, though I didn't recognize the range off the top of my head. In the near background of where I stood, feet planted upon rock, was what appeared to be a kind of walled town, with buildings that looked as though they'd been carved out of the rock themselves, eventually swallowing themselves into the mountain. The hungry eyes that devoured us had no talismans upon their necks like normal shifters, which meant they didn't follow human laws, they hadn't bothered trying to integrate with human society – and they inspected us all.
“I bring you these three women as tribute,” my kidnapper states, his hard brown eyes ignoring us, seeking approval of the shifters.
“What do you desire in return for this gift?” The alpha shifter of the group folds his arms, one eyebrow lifted over a pale gray iris. “Speak and we may discuss.”
My trafficker gives a little bow. “I wish to be able to pass through your mountains whenever I want, and to have automatic asylum and living rights in your city.”
“Ridiculous!” One shifter spits, his muscles rippling as he steps forward. “You would need to have earned the honor to have such rights. All you've done is kidnap three teenage girls. Denied.”
“Calm, Argyle,” the gray eyed shifter says, raising a palm for silence. “It is still a valuable gift.” He gazes down at the trafficker, who now had beads of sweat forming on his disgusting forehead. “We will grant you right of passage, but no asylum.”
“Then I'm afraid I'll have to retract at least two of my gifts,” the trafficker says matter of factly. “Most people would pay thousands. All I ask is asylum and passage. If I can only gain part, then you will only have part.” He seized the shoulders of the goth girl and the fabulous blonde, leaving me standing alone.
When Argyle began snarling again, the man held still, unwilling to change his compromise.
Neither, it seemed, was the gray eyed shifter. “Then so be it. We will have one woman, and you will have safe passage. We thank you for your generous gift.”
Fuck, I think. If only the trafficker had picked me instead.
Did he think I was ugly? Was it chance? Was it God's way of ensuring I never committed another sin, by making sure something like this happened? I don't know.
I never felt like a sinner. I felt like I was simply taking advantage of what I had, to get what I wanted.
Isn't that what America is all about? Working hard for what we want? Accumulating all that money in the bank so we can live our lives successfully, rather than sinking to the bottom?
Maybe I had it all wrong. And maybe they're nothing but excuses.
As it is, I now face these intimidating shifters alone, shifters who eat me up with their eyes.
Shifters who can transform into dragons – as I soon find out, when the gray eyed man morphs into a steel gray dragon with enormous wings, seizing me in his talons without warning, carrying me off to the mountain city in the near distance.
Dragons. Mythical shifters. One of the rarest categories. I read about that once, and people sounded genuinely terrified of dragons. They have their own nation called Balteria. They have enough firepower to destroy the world. They don't like communicating with humans. They could be plotting to kill us all.
That sort of thing.
Trapped in his talon
s, the fear now consumes me for the first time. I'd been keeping a lid on it, not letting it get to me. Not letting what my father did get to me over the last few days. But now that I'm trapped in this monster's talons, I can feel the essence of my spirit slipping away. All he has to do is release his talons, and I'm dead. Breathe fire on me – dead. Overestimate his strength – dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
My father, a good, Christian man, condemned his daughter. Maybe he intended to take me back after a sufficient cooling off period. Or maybe he truly wanted to cut me out of his life, because despite how Christianity preaches for forgiveness, he never found the will to forgive me in his black and white heart.
White, because he thinks he's good. Black, because under that layer of white, he's hiding the real darkness underneath.
I swallow the sobs in my throat. I do not want to aggravate my captor any more than necessary. I've seen some fickle men in my time in those clubs, and you learn after a while how to smell them out, and avoid. You learn to protect your drinks, and to give into their demands in the bedroom, unless they get too fucked up. But if it gets too fucked up, chance are, you're already lost.
It becomes our gift, in a way, to detect the mood of these men. A survival instinct, if you will, since there's no business without some risk.
It does feel at times that my kind of business is riskier than other types. People can do strange things when aroused, and sometimes their judgement goes straight out the window.
I think it's a shame in a way, that people lose control. All of us are capable of feeling the same things, controlling the same things. Yet, some of us have a very poor sense of self control. A poor sense of their body and the limits it possesses.
I know my body, and the limits it can take. I know I've done for myself what I can – and I'm convinced my father is wrong to do what he did.
I'm still the same person I ever was.
It's just the people's perception around that changes. The thoughts help cling me to some semblance of sanity, and I contain my urge to whimper better. It's easier to feel better when you rein in control on your thoughts. Accept that I did nothing wrong. It's not my fault.
Still, even if it's not my fault, I'm a captive of a dragon shifter. God knows what he plans to do to me. God knows if I can take it. But there's no point worrying about it now.
I'll just have to take the punches as they come.
I'm taken into a small stone abode, a short distance from the main entrance into the mountain. It's not a comfortable landing, and I'm still struggling to hold in my fears, constantly, constantly soothing myself in my thoughts, even as the hysteria wells up.
I'm okay. I'm in control. I'll be fine.
I have to be.
Once we're inside the abode, he drops me on the floor and morphs back into his human form. I see the grass and stone outside, and other shifters going about their daily businesses. I smell fresh, mountain air, with a hint of brimstone and ash, like maybe what a volcano smells like – or a dragon. I feel the wind tickle my skin, and I hear the faint running sound of water. A river? A tap?
I glance around the place, trying not to look at my captor. It's fairly minimalistic. He doesn't have much in the way of furniture, aside from three armchairs. Not even a sprawling sofa of any kind to lie on. There's no television, though he does have a small kitchenette, complete with cupboards. I see a lot of coffee jars, suggesting that he's an avid drinker of such stuff. I see a kettle and microwave, so he does have some form of electricity. Windmills? Solar panels? I'm not sure.
Not that this should be important, but I want to get a sense of where I am. Who I'm with. Like if I saw a collection of severed heads or something, I'd have a fairly clear indicator the gray eyed man is some sort of psychopath.
Instead, his voice pulls me back to looking at him. My hands ball into fists against the hard stone of the floor.
“My name is Feltan,” he says, those gray eyes drilling into me. He stands there with so much confidence, so much power. Although he only stands a short distance away, it feels as though he's much closer, already breathing down my neck as his aura overwhelms me. He's taller than me, with tapered, well-defined muscles which belonged on the front cover of a magazine. He'd be the kind of person I'd make a beeline for in the clubs, but I wouldn't think I could get him to pay me for sex. No. Someone like that had to be respectable, already holed up with a wife somewhere, with that neat, trimmed way he dresses, in a white blouse, a gray jacket and pinstripe pants. His black hair is neatly combed back, probably gelled. He's maybe even a businessman.
Not a shifter living in a small stone cottage in the middle of nowhere.
Dimly, I realize he's expecting me to answer, and I lick my lips nervously. “I'm, uh, Elle. Elle Anderson.”
He repeats my name, tasting the syllable, and the tone of his voice sends a shiver down my back. It ripples through, and I smell a hint of danger.
I am a woman. He is a man. I'm alone, abducted, and I have nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. And nobody to listen to my screams.
The other shifters won't care. Why should they? They're the ones who take part in this.
“So tell me, Elle Anderson. How old are you? Be honest, mind. I can smell dishonesty.” He taps his nose, smiling amiably, though his eyes are cold and hard.
“E-eighteen.” I can't help it. I'm already losing grip on my strength. My will to keep calm, to rationalize the situation in a way that can be managed in my hands.
“Eighteen? You're younger than you look.” He steps in close to me, and places one hand under my chin, tilting my face to angle towards his. “You may be a little grubby right now, but you do look... suitable. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Soft skin.” His finger trails over my cheek. “Huge lips, and something here to squeeze.” His palm cups one of my C cup breasts, and tightens. I gasp, cheeks flushing at the gesture. He's completely in control. I don't dare to move as he continues his inspection of me, eyes gleaming now in interest, even lust.
There's no doubt in my mind what he plans for me.
In a way, that puts me at comfort. I know what to do in bed. I know what I want and how to please. If he does this to me, I won't make it into something of defeat and trauma. I'll tank it, and prepare myself for the long run. I subconsciously lean into his touch, and his eyebrows shift in surprise.
“Do you like this, little human? This feeling?” His fingers carve a path along my stomach, nail scratching my pants, and I bite my lip. He takes one step closer, and slides his full hand in the gap between my legs, pressing hard against the blue denim into my crotch, creating a delicious friction. I close my eyes, mentally prepare myself, and sigh.
“Hmm.” He removes his hand, and I open my eyes. He gives me a rather cruel smile. I wonder if he's as cruel as that smile suggests. If he thinks of me as a living being at all. Or whether he's anticipating what he's going to do to me. My mind's already running through scenarios despite itself. Will he just take off my clothes and fuck me on the spot? Will he peel them off slowly, or rip them to shreds?
He likely has the strength in those arms to do anything he wants with me. And I wouldn't be able to resist.
My cheeks flush with slight shame, because I'm getting turned on in spite it all. In spite of the fear, or even because of it.
What does that make me, I wonder?
If he sees a hint of the lust in my eyes, he doesn't show it. He's too focused on examining my body, as if checking it for flaws and blemishes. Once again, his hand strays to my breast, and I inhale deep, before he retracts it.
“Maybe I should let you settle in, first. Have some time to yourself. Do whatever you want in the place. Except trash it or escape. There will be... consequences, for both actions.”
He gives me a winning smile, before striding to one of the armchairs, sitting down in it, crossing his legs over, and picking a book up to read.
I stand there, utterly confused, as he ignores me. I don't know how to react or what to say. Eventually, I crack my li
ps open after licking them and croak, “What... do you expect me to do?”
“We'll get to that later,” he says dismissively, waving at me as if I'm an annoyance, interrupting his reading.
What. The. Fuck? “Can I walk out the entrance?”
“No. And even if I didn't stop you, I don't think you'll be having a fun time out there. Some people are less... hesitant about how they deal with women. Let's just leave it at that.”
I sigh. “Point taken. So... I can just wander around in this place, then?”
Feltan nods. “Be my guest.”
I sigh. I'm unsure what he's getting at, but it's clear he doesn't want to address me anymore. I decide to have a look around the place, and see if I can find anything useful. There could be some nice, sharp and stabby utensils in the kitchen area, but if he decides to transform into a dragon, I'm unsure just how effective a stabby is going to be.
I dash my thoughts of attempted murder and poke around the kitchen, seeing what type of foods he has. He has a lot of tinned vegetables and readymade meals. Nothing glamorous or particularly appetising. The food stock makes me wonder if he's preparing for a nuclear war or something. I close the cupboard and check the refrigerator out. Milk. Bread. Eggs. Bottles of beer of an unknown brand.
He has a lot of red bull drinks in there too, all piled up in a cooler unit. The freezer section has nothing but a pile of pizzas.
I think for a moment how he has access to all this stuff, before I slap myself on the head. Of course he'll have access. He has wings. He can probably fly around the entire world in a day or something without paying any fuel costs at all. I actually become envious of that fact. How much easier life must be if you're a shifter. You can reach so many places faster, more cost effectively.
Wouldn't it be fantastic if I could fly?
I know there are no female shifters. It strikes me as an irritating fact, because it suggests only guys can have the power to transform. They still need women to reproduce, but for whatever reason, that women won't have any female children.
Bad, Very Bad Shifters- The Complete Mega Bundle Page 52
