Vishous:
-Time was ticking, I knew what was doing around me and what it
meant the longer I waited for an opportunity to escape. The seconds turned into
minutes and minutes into hours, my strength was slowly draining out which meant
I had one good shot at hauling ass from this place with minimum use of my
strength… and it all came down to just the right time. Saving what was left of
my energy to pull a trick from George’s hand playing dead for the assholes in
the room. “… he’s out cold…” “Ye’d better be sure, Throe.” “Just move your arse
before he does come to.” “I need to be able to mark his wrists. Take that… off
his hand.” “Not until he’s locked back down…” the voices fade in and out…two
I’d come to know well joined by a third new voice, hanging in my iron prison,
diamond eyes darting behind closed lids as I strained to listen to the movement
around me, stretched limbs screaming at being freed after so long when I feel
the first of the bands holding my arms open with a clang, my hand dropping like
a lead weight, jarring my shoulder until I had to swallow back a yelp of pain
that would have given me away. My whole escape plan depended on the seconds
when I would be freed from the cage and moved for the vermin that Ione had
hired to brand me with slave bands. Gametime. My head rolling on my shoulders,
I went limp when the second band sprang open and the two bastards lifted me
out, feet dragging loosely over the dusty floor to the makeshift table, letting
them hoist me onto its surface, falling back with a heavy thud. My stellar
performance earning me the distance I needed from the males that have grown to
make a sport out of bleeding me almost to death. There was movement to the side
of the table… counting the footsteps…the clock of Throe and Zypher’s boots circling
me, straining to hear the softer steps to my right, punctuated by the hushed
tear of paper and the metallic clink of needles. “I think it’s safe.” The voice
of the tattoo artist shook, in spite of his words. “He might look like a side
of beef now, Cael but, don’t ever fucking assume you’re safe with this one.
Unconscious or no, he’s still the Bloodletter’s son.” That’s right, assholes…
and you’re going to see how much like him I really am. There was more than one
reason for me to survive this shit, not only do I have my brothers but now…
fucking father of two youngs and mated to the strongest and sexiest female I
have ever known. Once again thanking my shitty past for giving me the
self-control required to live through this and much more with a minimum movement
and emotion. Fueled by the image of my female and our son, I’d held on this
long, conserving my waning strength for this one moment… feeling my arms moved
into place, picturing the juxtaposition of the table and its own iron bands…
crucified… seems to be the fate of the young of deities, tamping down on the
bitter laugh rising, I snapped to focus when cold iron closed over my forearm,
securing one and then the other, an eternity passing while the males argued
over who would free my cursed hand for the artist’s needle. “Just do it, for
chrissake. And make it fast.” With a loud exhale, the lucky contestant stepped
around, keys jingling and sliding into the lock that held the lead ball closed,
the click of the tumblers and then the weight was gone, listening to the
retreating steps. That’s it… back up… peering through slitted lids, to watch
the males through blood-crusted lashes, ignoring the pain in my weakened arm as
I pulled back, millimeter by millimeter, snagging the cuff of my glove on the
band and beginning to work it down my palm, trying to peel the leather back
from my skin. It was now or never.-
