Ravage

Snapping the lock on the cage, I wrenched open the door. Fisting the picana at my side, I ordered, “Get out!”

The female dropped her head. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but she put one shaky foot in front of the other and stopped beside me. This close, I towered over her. She was smaller than Mistress, at least half her size. Her skin was dark against my pale form. It was soft against my ink and rough scars.

My jaw clenched as I fought the need to touch her. Fought against the urge to stop her pain. But I couldn’t; 152’s face in my mind forced me to keep going.

Pointing the picana to the upright metal slab in the center of the room, I growled, “Stand against it.” She glanced up at me, anxiety racking her now-pale face. I stepped closer, so close that my hard chest brushed up against the cold skin of her arm. I caught her sharp intake of breath at the contact, and a jolt of fire raced down my spine. I schooled my confusion as to why.

Her skin bumped again. My muscles jerked at how affected she had become in my proximity. Leaning down, catching her stiffen, I placed my mouth at her ear and whispered threateningly, “I said. Fucking. Move. Georgian.” I leaned back just a fraction, my powerful, scarred body looming over her.

I knew I had her now. I could practically feel her fear filling the room. This would be where she cracked. This would be where she spoke.

Then, shocking me to hell, her tiny foot took a step toward the metal slab. Frustration immediately swept through me. And just as she took another slow step, I threw my arm out in front of her face, my hand gripping one of the metal bars of the cage. The female gasped in shock, grinding to a halt. Leaning down, I ran my nose along the curve of her neck over her damp hair, feeling her trembling where she stood.

There, I thought. I’d found another weakness.

Me.

This ugly beast’s unwanted touch.

My nose ran up and down, up and down. Her breathing was ragged; her body shook. My closeness was tearing down the walls of her bravado. But as I inhaled, I fumed when I responded to her scent—sweet and addictive.

Attractive.

Without letting myself think, I pressed my body against her side. My chest brushed against her arm, and my hips set against her hip. The female suddenly froze, and when I glanced down my long hard cock was pressing against her side. As I saw the flush race up her cheeks, my teeth scraped over my bottom lip. Then my hips pushed forward, my dick under my sweatpants now flush against her thigh. My hand tightened against the bar at the feel of her against me, and I leaned down to her ear once more and repeated, “Your name?”

Her body jumped, trapped between the cage and me. Yet, even wrapped in nothing but fear, she opened those big lips and stuttered, “E—Elene M—Melua.”

I stilled, and the iron bar creaked under my equally iron grip. Blinking, I snapped out of the feeling of her body up against mine and wrenched back my arm. The female flinched at my sudden movement. My jaw clenched and, taking the prod, I hammered it against the bars and barked, “Move!”

She rushed forward. She didn’t look back as she kept her head down and hurried to the metal slab.

I watched her go, my gaze drifting down to her round ass. My muscles stiffened at the sight and I forced myself to lift my head. The female stopped just beside the slab. Rolling my shoulders, I took the prod and approached where she stood. Standing directly in front of her, I placed the prod on her stomach. She flinched. She still expected to be shocked. That was what I wanted—to completely fuck with her mind. I wanted her guessing when the next jolt of pain would strike. I pushed the tip of the prod against her skin and commanded, “Step back four paces!”

The female did exactly as I said. Looking up, I saw she was directly under the showerhead above. Reaching out to the lever on the wall at her side, I yanked it down, and a spray of ice-cold water covered her tiny frame.

She cried out and gasped for air as the water drenched her skin. Waiting until she was fully immersed, I pulled the lever and moved forward until I could slam my hand down on the hard metal slab behind her.

I waited for her to react, but when she tried to lift a foot she fell to the floor, the cold seizing her muscles. I tensed as she fought to get back on her feet, her long hair draping over her face so much that I couldn’t see her expression. Her body convulsed at the cold. I watched her put a trembling hand on the floor, trying to move, but her body simply wouldn’t work.

A slice of pain slammed through my chest. Coughing, I tried to clear the ache that had taken hold of me. My hand clenched at my side as I fought against the need to help her. The need to lift her and save her—like I wanted to save 152.

Then came the following rush of anger, anger that I’d felt anything for this little Georgian at all. I was trained to resist empathy. I was trained to switch off from feeling anything at all.

Right now that training was failing.

Don’t feel sorry for her, I told myself. She’s a Georgian suka. This suka stands between you and your kill. This suka, alive and surviving, sends 152 away to Master. No one else matters but 152. Nothing else matters but setting her free.

Clinging to that thought, I bent down, wrapping my hand around her arm. She tensed under my hold, but I picked her up and held her against the slab. Stowing the picana to the side, I shackled her wrists and ankles to the attached metal cuffs. Standing back, I stared down at her strapped to the slab. Her thick long hair was still covering her face and chest. Moving forward, I brushed the wet hair back until all of her body was exposed. As her chest was revealed up close for the first time, I let my eyes roam.

When they abruptly stopped.

Three wide scars, looking like patched-up holes, stood proud on her skin—one under her shoulder, one on her left waist, and one just above her left hip. The female’s stomach was quickly rising and falling, drops of water turning to ice on her skin. When I looked up to her face, the skin was pale and her lips were turning blue, with the skin beginning to crack.

But those eyes, those fucking dark eyes of hers, were still watching me. Only this time there was no water filling them. They were staring straight through me, glazed.

Knowing she was at the brink of collapse, I moved to the opposite side of the bed and took hold of the fan and heater, positioning them at the front of her wet naked body. Flexing my wrist, as I held my hand over the cold air fan’s switch, I asked, “Tell me your name.”

She stared at me blankly. She didn’t react. After several seconds, her mouth dropped open and with her eyes still glazed she managed to whisper, “Elene Melua. Kazreti, Georgia.”