Читать книгу Forbidden Captor - Julie Miller - Страница 10

The monster’s cage?

Smooth move, Sarge. Had he really said that out loud to that woman? No wonder she’d high-tailed it out of here last night.

Bryce sat on the edge of his cot and twisted the crick from his neck. Squinting into the dust motes that filled the rays of morning sunshine, he wondered what kind of hell awaited him today.

Especially after he’d gotten an unexpected glimpse of heaven last night.

Tasiya Belov was a damn sight prettier than that scraggly Bristoe fella with the dirty hands and playground taunts who’d brought his bread and water the past seven nights. The insults and tough talk didn’t faze him—Bristoe was a misguided kid trying to prove himself a man. But it sure was nice to finally get a taste of food that was clean and water that was fresh.

It was nicer to get a look at Tasiya.

Bryce rubbed at the skin chafing beneath his wrist manacles and thought himself twelve kinds of fool. He should have come up with something decent to say to her, or kept his big mouth shut the way he usually did. Then, at least, he could have enjoyed the view a little longer. All that curly hair—blacker than the night around them—falling nearly to her waist. Skin that was as pale and pearlescent in the moonlight as her lashes were thick and dark. Lashes that surrounded wide, slightly tilted eyes the shade of rich, robust coffee.

Or maybe that was just the scent he got off her. Homey. Normal. Like his grandma’s good cookin’. Far removed from any of the crap that was going on around here. Something about Tasiya’s fairy-tale beauty and quiet ways had breached the cool reserve he wore like a suit of armor. He didn’t allow himself to be attracted to many women. By age thirty-three, he’d wised up to that futility. But Tasiya Belov, with the exotic eyes and accent, had gotten to him before he could distance himself from a man’s basic, male reaction to a beautiful woman.

So, of course he’d warned her off.

His chains jangled as he crawled onto the floor and squared off to do a set of push-ups. For years he’d used physical activity to dull the aches and longings and regrets of his life. What he couldn’t burn out of his system this way, he tried to ignore.

Bryce knew he wasn’t any great shakes to look at. The burn scars were old news; he’d had them since he was a kid, from the car accident that had killed his folks. The shrapnel scars that marked the end of his military career were more recent, more shocking to the unfamiliar eye. And the condition he was in now made his appearance even less appealing than usual.

It was a fact of his life. He was a big, scary-looking man. It made him a formidable enemy, a boon to his second career as a bounty hunter working for his former military commander, Cameron Murphy. He used his intimidating countenance to his advantage; few of the criminals he’d brought in expected the big guy to be so smart, or so good with his hands. And yeah, if it came down to it, he could out-bust just about anybody in hand-to-hand combat.

He’d had years to learn to accept his fate. It shouldn’t bother him.

But when Tasiya had looked at him with those wide, frightened eyes, he’d felt like a monster.

Yep, she’d had to muster up some real guts to hold out that cup of water. As if treatin’ him like a human being was some kind of apology—like she’d done this to him. Or maybe it was defiance that had made her reach out to him. But what was she taking a stand against? Him? Boone Fowler? Her own fear?

And what the hell was a beautiful woman from Lukinburg, of all places, doing here on this godforsaken island? The Special Forces unit he and his buddies from Big Sky had been ambushed with had been secretly prepping for a covert surgical strike into Lukinburg. The UN wanted to oust their despotic king and restore democratic rule there. Bryce’s former unit was supposed to be the first team in—to gather intel and remove a few key leaders.

So how had Boone Fowler’s militia gotten wind of that attack when the team had been under a communication blackout for days?

He did one last push-up, shoving himself up and bracing his weight over his arms. An image of a willowy woman with frightened eyes blipped into his thoughts. Surely not. A Lukinburg spy on the militia’s payroll? They’d never go for it. The whole point of Boone Fowler’s life—beyond his quest for vengeance against Cameron Murphy and the Big Sky team who’d put him in prison before his escape a few months back—was to cleanse America of any foreigners. And to keep Americans off foreign soil and out of foreign business.

So where did Tasiya fit in?

Dammit. He was thinking about her again. He was curious. Worried. Swift one, Sarge.

Bryce clapped his hands together as he pushed to his feet to do a round of squats. The noise startled some movement in the corner of his cell. He slowly sank to his haunches and smiled.

His little mouse friend was back, scoping out the nooks between the stones, scrounging for crumbs. Bryce’s empty stomach growled right on cue.

“You’re outta luck, buddy,” he teased his furry roommate. They both were.

He was doing his best to stay in peak physical condition in case the opportunity for escape presented itself. But his insides felt as if they were rubbing together. A little extra food would go a long way to maintain his strength and keep his thinking sharp. If there were any crusts of bread around, he’d have gone after them himself.

Bryce stilled as the mouse scurried between the steel bars and disappeared into the darkness of the passageway beyond.

Smart mouse.

Crossing to the locked cell door, Bryce wrapped his fists around the cold, unyielding steel and pressed his forehead to the bars to peer into the shadows.

That’s what he should be doing, searching this place.

But not for bread crumbs.

Let’s replay this escape scenario again. He needed to get outside to get the lay of the place. Scoping out the location of the other prisoners and ascertaining a sense of schedules, the number of militiamen at the compound and security protocols could secure a way off the island. Bryce had no doubt they were somewhere off the eastern coastline of the U.S. They hadn’t been transported by air, and after he regained consciousness on the boat they’d been tied up in, they’d traveled only a couple of hours. Not long enough to get them out of the country.

And it had to be the ocean. He recognized the smell of the salt in the air. In the still of the night he’d identified the pummeling of waves hitting land with a force too powerful to be a lake or river’s edge.

But knowing he was on an island in the Atlantic was hardly enough information to mount an escape attempt. And if he couldn’t get out of this hole to investigate for himself, then he needed to make a connection with someone who did have the freedom to move about the place.

Tasiya Belov.

A tight fist gripped his stomach and squeezed. He hated the idea of using her. But it made better sense than digging the mortar from around the bars at the window and climbing out into who knew what kind of situation.

He’d spotted the armload of keys around her wrist and suspected they could get him into nearly every place he needed to go. They could get him out of these chains, at any rate, and that would give him the ability to move about the compound with less chance of being detected.

That had been his first thought, grab the keys. But, short of using brute force against the woman—which wasn’t his style—that wasn’t gonna happen.

That left convincing her to befriend him, to run a few errands for him. Of course, he had no idea whether or not he could trust that she’d bring back the truth. Skittish as she seemed, she might run straight to Boone Fowler and tell him what the monster had asked of her.

Yeah, that’d go over real big in the escape-and-bring-these-murdering-bastards-to-justice department.

That left charming the woman.

A nearly impossible feat.

Long days out in the hills of the Missouri Ozarks where he’d grown up—hunting, fishing, camping—and quiet evenings spent on the porch with the grandparents who’d raised him didn’t go a long way toward developing a man’s sweet-talkin’ ways.

Maybe one of the other bounty hunters, Aidan Campbell, Jacob Powell or Riley Watson—strike that, Craig O’Riley was the alias he’d been using when they were captured—were thinking along the same lines. They had the sweet words and the deceptive smiles and handsome faces he lacked. Hell, the way Powell ran his mouth sometimes, he could wear down a body’s resistance, make a woman happy to concede to his will. And O’Riley was the master of undercover work. He could don a persona and make anyone—man or woman—believe every word he said.

So how was a former army sergeant who knew more about weapons and explosives than he knew about conversation and seduction supposed to get close enough to Tasiya Belov to gain her trust and enlist her help?

He wasn’t.

He’d have to find another means of escape.

And he’d have to find it soon.

Bryce had been staring down the hallway long enough for the shadows to lighten and take shape. His cell was at the dead end of a passage that doubled back on itself. He knew that route led to a series of locked iron doors, one of which was the interrogation room—four stone walls that housed all the twisted toys of the Inquisition. From this vantage point, all he could see was an electrical wire and broken lightbulb tacked up between the stones.

But he could hear the enemy coming. Since they had the guns and he wore the chains, there was no need for stealth. Bryce backed up to the center of his cell and shook loose the muscles in his arms and legs, mentally bracing himself and prepping his body for the hours to come.

Marcus Smith and a pair of bully sidekicks lined up outside his door to pay him a visit.

“Ready to talk today, Sergeant?” Marcus spat his chaw through the bars on the floor next to Bryce’s bare foot.

Bryce didn’t shift his gaze from those icy blue eyes. Satisfying Smith’s power-hungry need to control him wasn’t on his to-do list. Smith was buttin’ heads with a man who’d already endured the worst the world had to offer. His boys and toys couldn’t break him.

Bryce’s only response was the silent promise he made.

Ready to get what’s coming to you? Because it will come. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But the days of the Montana Militia for a Free America are numbered.

Bryce and his fellow bounty hunters at Big Sky were damn well gonna see to it.

“DID YOU GET A LOAD of the big guy today?” Even with the buzz of other conversations in the room, Tasiya couldn’t tune out Marcus Smith’s booming voice. She couldn’t ignore the lecherous fascination of his eyes, either. His cold blue gaze followed her as she moved from one table to the next to pour more coffee. Thank God she was out of arm’s reach and he was busy regaling his men with stories. “Sits there and stares at you. Never says a word. Pisses me off.”

“At least he doesn’t get you off track with all his smart-ass remarks.” Steve Bristoe, the skinny blond man who didn’t seem to mind that Tasiya had replaced him in the kitchen, stuck a forkful of apple pie in his mouth and continued talking. “That Craig O’Riley is gonna say the wrong thing one of these days and I’m gonna really let him have it.”

Marcus held up his mug, indicating he wanted her to return to his table for a refill. “Maybe it’s time to execute another one of the soldiers. If physical force won’t turn them, we’ll have to find another way. We’ll put one innocent life on each of their heads until we have those Big Sky bozos eating out of our hand.”

Execution? Was that the kind of atrocity Dimitri Mostek and his unknown boss were financing here? Would he put a stop to the killing if she reported the militia’s activities? Or would he applaud their work?

Tasiya swallowed the lump of dread in her throat and wiped all emotion from her face before stepping into Marcus’s personal space. In fewer than forty-eight hours she’d already learned that Marcus Smith, with his yellow teeth and dirty hands, didn’t think the no-touch rule applied to him. Unless Boone Fowler was around, of course. And since the militia leader preferred to take his meals in the privacy of his office instead of in the mess hall with his men…

A large, meaty palm attached itself to her backside. Tasiya nearly stumbled as Marcus pulled her even closer. “That’s it, sugar,” he said, as though his hand on her butt provided some sort of assistance in her duties. “Fill it all the way up.”

Even when his words were seemingly innocent, or didn’t quite make sense in her translation, his tone always made her feel dirty. The same way Dimitri had made her feel. This is what she’d sentenced herself to by agreeing to Dimitri’s plan. A life in which she jumped at the touch of a man’s hand, a life in which she turned off her emotions so as not to draw attention to herself and her discomfort, a life in which she would never know a man’s kindness or love.

But, for her father, she would do this. He was all she’d ever had. For Anton Belov she would do anything.

“Thanks, sugar.”

With the slightest of nods, Tasiya turned out of his grasp, unable to stop herself from wiping at the warm spot he’d left on the back of her jeans.

“Whoa, pretty thing, where you runnin’ off to so fast?” His hand at her elbow stopped her escape.

“I have work to do in the kitchen.”

This time, Steve Bristoe paused midchew to take note of the grubby hand on her sweater, then looked up at Marcus with a question in his eyes. He wanted to know how Marcus could get away with this infraction. But the black-haired giant was meaner and tougher than Bristoe could ever aspire to be. He was clearly the most feared man in this room. One look from Marcus, and Bristoe quickly turned his attention back to his dessert. With Marcus staking such a proprietary claim on her, there was no one in the room who would come to her defense.

Tasiya twisted against his grip, making an effort to defend herself. “There is food in the oven I must see to.”

“Now you hold on a minute, sugar.” The instant she saw how her struggles amused him, Tasiya forced herself to relax. Her quick concession to his will wiped away his grin. “I’m trying to pay you a compliment. I want you to clear these things from the table and bring me another piece of that delicious pie.”

“There is no more pie.”

His grip tightened, demanding she look at him. “I don’t like that answer.”

“It is the truth. You have eaten everything I prepared.”

“Then prepare some more.”

Tasiya shook her head. “But the time…” She pointed to the open kitchen door. “The bread I have baked for the prisoners will burn.”

Marcus stood up. Towering over her, he bellowed his fetid breath in her face. “Who the hell cares about them?”

His commander did.

“Mr. Fowler’s instructions were to feed them every night. To help them keep their strength—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all that. He wants them alive, but they don’t have to be healthy. You take care of all our needs first. And then you can feed whatever the hell you want to those traitors.” He pinched her arm. “Are we clear on that?”

Tasiya bowed her head. “Yes.”

He released her and threw his hands up in the air as if reprimanding her had taxed his patience. “Now get this mess cleaned up and don’t defy me again.”

For a moment Tasiya couldn’t stem her temper or find her courage. She opened her mouth, but the right words wouldn’t come.

It was a moment long enough for Marcus to shove his plate into her empty hand and swat her rump to speed her toward the kitchen. “Tomorrow night, know that I’m expecting two desserts.”

She stumbled over her own feet in her hurry to put as much distance between her and Marcus Smith as possible. Temporarily beyond the sight of that big baboon, she dumped the dishes into the sink and ran cool water over a towel. Angry beyond words, feeling frustrated and helpless, she could do nothing more but silently curse Marcus and Dimitri Mostek. She was trapped by her love for her father in a completely horrible mess in which she had no one to rely on but herself.

Patting the towel across her flushed face and holding it against her nape beneath the French knot of her hair was the only comfort she could give herself, the only outlet for the feelings she couldn’t express. She allowed herself five minutes of relative privacy. Time enough to shut off the ovens and let her temper cool along with the loaves of bread. Time enough to fix her emotionless mask back into place, pick up a plastic tub and return to the dining room to begin clearing the tables.

The smells of tobacco and liquor stung her nose as some of the men lit cigarettes and doctored their coffee from flasks in their pockets. A few headed out into the breezeway or checked the pistols at their sides and returned to their posts. Those remaining went back to trading stories, plotting strategies and ignoring her as she worked.

“Hey, listen to this, Marcus. We’re on the radio.” A short, stocky man she knew only as Ike shushed the room when he turned up the reporter’s voice on his battery-powered radio.

“The nationwide manhunt continues for the eight prisoners who escaped from The Fortress prison in Montana where, like Alcatraz, escape was once thought to be impossible. The man believed to have spearheaded the prison break, Boone Fowler, the reputed leader of the Montana Militia for a Free America, is also sought as a suspect in a recent nerve gas incident at the Big Sky Galleria mall…”

“We’re famous.”

“Is the boss hearing this?”

“They’ll never find us here.”

“Shut up. I want to listen.” Marcus silenced the men.

Tasiya began quietly stacking and clearing dishes from the tables to hide how intently, she, too, was listening to the American news report. “In other news, Crown Prince Nikolai of Lukinburg—at a speech in Kalispell, Montanta—spoke of his gratitude to the American government and its people for their support in helping to bring peace and prosperity back to his country.”

After a crackle of applause, she heard the familiar, cultured voice of the man who would defy his king and father to save the country she loved from ruin. “Kalispell, Montana is quite delightful in November. It’s almost as pretty and picturesque as Ryanavik Mountain in my nation, Lukinburg. Can you envision the same…”

Tasiya paused with a handful of silverware, frowning at the eloquent oratory. Ryanavik was the name of a lake outside St. Feodor, not a mountain. A native of her homeland would never make such a mistake in geography. Was Prince Nikolai taking poetic license to create an analogy pleasing to the Americans? She dropped the silverware into a mug and reached for the wad of paper napkins at the center of the table. But Lukinburg had so many beautiful mountains, why not—

“Turn that damn crap off!”

Boone Fowler stormed into the dining hall, picked up Ike’s radio and hurled it across the room. It hit the stone wall and shattered, silencing Prince Nikolai and any protest from the men in the room.

Like the others, Tasiya froze. Her heart, thumping against the walls of her chest, was the only sound she could hear.

With the pinkie of his left hand, Fowler brushed aside a stringy lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. But as calm and controlled as that tiny movement was, there was nothing soft or gentle about him as he paced the length of the room. “You men are getting weak and lax. Basking in your own glory. We are fighting for our country, not ourselves. Our campaign is not about our egos and making the news. This is about the truth that I have taught you again and again.”

“America for Americans,” Ike mumbled dutifully.

Fowler braced his hands at his hips and nodded, slowly turning to make eye contact with each man in the room. “America for Americans,” he articulated through the clench of his jaw. “I’ve trained you all to be better men than this. I’ve trained you to believe in the cause as much as you believe in me.”

He reached out and put a hand on Ike’s shoulder. Tasiya, clutching the trash from the table to her chest to hide her own trembling hands, didn’t for one second believe Fowler’s contact was meant to be a comforting, fatherly gesture. Yet Ike looked up into his leader’s black eyes as though receiving wisdom and reassurance from a saint. “I believe in you, sir.”

Fowler nodded, then stepped away. “I’ve devised a plan we must follow to the letter. I’ve given you orders and I expect them to be obeyed. I haven’t let you down yet, have I? I showed you the truth about how our government is betraying our citizens, I gave you something to fight for. Is there any room in that plan to bask in personal accomplishments?”

“No, sir.” The timid responses echoed across the room.

Fowler turned. “Is there?”

“No, sir!” they answered with more force.

“America for Americans!” one man shouted. He repeated the slogan and others joined in. Soon they were clapping their hands and pounding on the tables. Tasiya never felt more isolated and unwelcome in the world than she did when the chant reached a feverish pitch.

But as a nervous sweat broke out across the back of her neck and chilled her spine, Boone Fowler seemed to relax. A smile sliced across his thin beard, though the satisfaction never warmed his eyes.

This impromptu rally for their patriotic cause was not unlike the protests in support of King Aleksandr in her own country. But if anyone dared voice a dissenting opinion against king or crowd, the state police would show up. Or else minions like Dimitri Mostek and his security force would pay a more-private visit after the fact.

These men were afraid of their leader. And he’d used that fear to brainwash them into obeying him.

If this was democracy, it was truly a frightening thing.

“Marcus.”

“Sir.” Marcus jumped to Fowler’s side.

The cheers began to fade and were replaced by excited chatter. Tasiya laid the napkins in the tub and tried to make as little noise as possible sliding the chairs back into place.

“I have the prisoners’ speeches written for the video. I want an update on your progress with them today,” Fowler ordered. “Report to my office in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fowler turned to the hapless Ike who was already on his feet, with his shoulders back and his chin tipped up at attention. “I want you to go to the communications center and doublecheck the accuracy of the wire I just received.”

“But Simmons is on duty, sir.”

“Don’t argue with me. I want your expertise to verify it.”

“Yes, sir.” Ike scooted out the door, pulling out a ring of keys as he disappeared into the breezeway.

“The rest of you—I want a complete sweep of the island. Check every inch of the security grid. I want to know if so much as a pelican has breached the perimeter today.”

A chorus of ‘Yes, sir’ and the scramble of feet and chairs left Tasiya standing alone at the center of the room.

“And you—” She flinched when Boone Fowler pointed straight at her, yanking her from anonymity into the spotlight. “Bring me coffee in my office. Black. And plenty of it.”

“Yes, sir.” She needed no excuse to linger. Propping the loaded tub on her hip, she turned and hurried out to the kitchen where she dumped out the dregs and started a fresh pot. But she could still hear Fowler talking to Marcus Smith.

“I need to know if any of the prisoners have made contact with anyone on the outside.”

“Impossible, sir. The bounty hunters aren’t even allowed contact with each other.”

“Good. Now here’s what I want you to do.”

Apparently, the two men had left the room. Tasiya could hear nothing now but the silence of just how alone she was.

She glanced quickly at her watch. If she hurried, by the time the coffee was done brewing she could make her call to Dimitri about the executions and Prince Nikolai’s speech, along with what she’d gathered about Boone Fowler escaping from prison and orchestrating some sort of terrorist attack in Montana. Hearing her father’s voice would replenish her strength and give her the courage to venture into Fowler’s office and face the man one on one.

Fifteen minutes later, Tasiya had to bite the inside of her lips to keep her nerves from screaming out as she carried a tray into Boone Fowler’s upstairs office.

Dimitri had denied her the chance to speak to her father. Whether the excuse that Anton was asleep was the truth or a lie hardly mattered. She’d been denied the one thing that could sustain her through this hellish sentence of servitude. Now she was left to wonder and worry if her father was all right. Had Dimitri’s men harmed him? Was he locked up the way those poor prisoners here on Devil’s Fork Island were?

Dimitri’s compliment on her ability to ferret out detailed information had done nothing to boost her morale. And she couldn’t very well tell him how Marcus’s unwanted advances angered her or how Boone Fowler’s temper frightened her. If Dimitri learned that his prize mistress had been soiled in any way, he might take his disappointment out on her father.

So Tasiya’s goal was to slip into Fowler’s office, set the tray on his desk and disappear just as quickly as she came in.

But this just wasn’t her night.

Fowler must have seen her reflection in the glass as he leaned against his office window and gazed out into the moonlit sky. “Pour for me.”

Tasiya hesitated for a moment before setting the tray down next to a wrinkled sheet of paper that looked as if it had been crushed into a tight ball, then spread out flat and smoothed back into shape. She could do this. She’d fixed a full meal for thirty men and served them in two shifts without a mishap until Marcus Smith got her in his sights. Boone Fowler didn’t care about such things, certainly not with her.

Drying her nervous palms on the legs of her jeans, Tasiya asked. “You said black?”

“Yes.”

She picked up the mug and the steaming pot. As she poured, her gaze strayed to the words on the page that had been discarded, then reclaimed. It looked like some sort of press release. The wire he’d mentioned to Ike? Is this what had Fowler so upset?

“Cameron Murphy released from Montana hospital. Bounty hunter expected to make full, if lengthy, recovery. Timing critical.”

Bounty hunter? Like Bryce Martin and the other three prisoners she’d heard the militiamen talking about?

Who was Cameron Murphy? The timing for what?

“Can you read that?”

Tasiya gasped, startled by Boone Fowler’s voice behind her. She quickly set down the coffeepot and gripped the mug with both hands before she spilled something. But the warmth that seeped into her fingers couldn’t dissipate the chill of being caught poking her nose in where it wasn’t welcome.

She uttered the first lie she could think of. “It helps my English to read.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” He breathed his suspicion against the back of her neck.

The coffee in the mug splashed up the sides as she started to shake. His brand of intimidation was even more frightening than Marcus’s ranting threats. “I can read the words, but they do not all make sense.”

She had to get out of here. She spun toward him. “Here’s your coff—”

But he was already stepping around her. “Maybe if you stuck to your own—”

Her hands smacked against his chest. The coffee sloshed over her fingers, scalding them. Her grip popped open and the mug crashed to the floor, splintering on contact. The hot liquid splashed Fowler’s jeans and spilled over his boots.

Tasiya gaped at the spreading stain, soaking into suede and denim. “I’m sorry. I’ll get another cup. A towel.” The man was too still. This was too dangerous. She looked up into the cold void of his eyes and knew she was in trouble. “I am sorry.”

“You…stupid…” She tried to retreat, but her hips hit the desk. She turned, grabbed the paper napkin off the tray and squatted at his feet to sop up what she could. He never touched her, but his words were like a slap across the face. “Get up. Get away from me.”

Tasiya lurched to her feet, but he cornered her against the desk, preventing her from doing the very thing he asked. “Please.”

“Please what?” She squinted her eyes against the foul words he slung at her. “I don’t owe you any favors. You’re a clumsy foreigner poisoning the land I love. Your incompetence reminds me of every foul, stinking reason I have to do what I do.” He snatched the napkin from her fingers. “Now get out of my face! Go! Get out!”

Shuffling to the side, Tasiya scooted away. As soon as she was clear of the desk, she turned and ran.

His threats chased her out the door. “That’s right, you witch. Run. Run!”

“Hey, sugar. What’s your hurry?”

She didn’t bother sliding to a halt as Marcus Smith emerged at the top of the stairs in front of her. She shifted directions to run right past him. “Leave me alone.”

But his bear-size paw latched on to her wrist and hauled her up to his level. “Now that ain’t nice—”

“Don’t touch me!”

Tasiya jerked her arm away. Her hand flew back and hit the wall, scraping knuckles against stone and shooting a jolt of pain straight up to her elbow.

The sharp ache cleared the fog of panic that had consumed her long enough to shove Marcus aside and dart down the spiral staircase.

“Hey—”

“Marcus!”

Boone Fowler’s summons kept Marcus from pursuing her. But Tasiya didn’t stop running until she reached the relative security of her tiny room off the kitchen. She unfurled the blanket she’d hung across the opening, sank onto her bed and hugged her pillow to her stomach. Burying her face in the pillow’s muffling softness, she screamed until her throat was raw and her energy was spent.

She was less than a human being in this place. Without kindness. Without security. Without respect.

By the time she could think clearly again, she looked at the clock. It was going on eight o’clock. She had seventeen hungry prisoners to feed.

Men who’d been chained, caged, tortured, beaten. Men who might be executed on Marcus Smith’s whim.

It was empathy, more than duty, compassion or even fear, that finally prompted her to rise to her feet and dry her eyes. Tasiya straightened her bed, repinned her hair and walked into the kitchen with a determined stride. She fixed an unsmiling mask on her lips and buried her emotions in the deepest hole she could find.

She was a prisoner, too.

Only, her chains were the greed and lust of powerful men. Her cage was the deal she’d made with the devil to save her father’s life.