Rabid (Kingdom of Wolves #6) - Ivy Asher Page 0,41
chain between my aching wrists and tugs me forward. I’m led around the side of the slipshod house, its plank siding made from the same wood as the trees surrounding it, aged from years of wear. In the back, there’s a fire pit, cold and unlit, composed of kindling found in the woods and a circle of rocks surrounding it. Terris leads me past, but when my eyes swing to the shed he’s aiming for, my heels dig in.
It doesn’t matter. Not that I stop walking, not that I pull back, not that I start to kick and scream and try to claw him. He still drags me into that wooden shed. Still tosses me inside of it.
My wolf bays and shoves, wanting to tear into him as he wraps a rope through an iron hoop in the wall and ties it in a tight loop around my forearm. I have to shove her down, all effort going to stopping the shift as my body shakes all over with the force of the resistance. Unfortunately, that internal struggle exhausts me, and I fall to my knees.
Terris looks down at me, unimpressed. “Stay here,” he grumbles, scratching a hand down the puckered flesh cut into his cheek. “You get caught out in them woods tonight, and you’ll be sorry.” With that threat, he walks out, the shed door slamming behind him as loud as the heartbeat that slams against the bones of my ribs.
The shed smells like fear. Piss, dirt, and fear. The smell is sticky and nauseating, and I can only wonder how many people have ended up in here just like me. It looks on the verge of collapse, like it’s just waiting for some big bad wolf to come blow it down. As much as I want to curl into a ball and drift away to the nothingness of rest, I need to get the fuck out of here.
A screen door slams closed somewhere on the house next to me, and I peer out between the cracks of the shrunken wood beams of the shed. When it seems as though the coast is clear, I turn away from my slivered view of outside and begin pulling on the knots in the rope with my teeth. I drag it down my forearm, closer to my wrist where I can reach.
Focusing, I try to call on my wolf to get her fangs to drop again, but she doesn’t listen. She’s too tired and still fighting with the remains of the drug. But I can’t give up, so I focus all my strength and efforts on getting loose with my own teeth, hoping I can find some tools under the tarps in the corner to relieve me of my chains. Chomping ruthlessly, I gnaw on it, ignoring the pricks of pain as the rough material of the rope scrapes my skin off every time it moves. I just start to get through one twisting cluster of knots when the door to the shed flies open, and I jump in surprise.
I yank the rope from my mouth and drop my wrists, looking up to see a man carrying two dog bowls in his hands and some kind of clippers tucked under one armpit. He’s dressed in similar hand sewn clothes as the couple, his pants made of some kind of hide and the shirt a rough-looking linen or itchy cotton.
A golden gaze fixes on me, and he brushes long strands of dark blond hair from his eyes with his bicep. I wait for his gaze to dip down my nude body, a ready snarl tickling my lips, but to my surprise, his eyes never leave mine until he looks at the rope I tried to chew through.
“If I make things more comfortable for you, will you be good?” he asks me with a scratchy voice, the tone thick and slightly dull as though he doesn’t speak much.
I don’t answer. My wolf and I just watch him, not trusting him for a second, but he still doesn’t leer at my breasts. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by my lack of response either, but his stare never leaves mine as he bends and puts a bowl of water on the ground and another stainless-steel bowl next to it that has cut up chunks of raw meat. My wolf wants to dive for the offerings, but I stay back. Warily, we watch him, not willing to take our focus off the stranger for anything.