Unbroken 2

Forty

Present

Savage

They’re in the pleasure room. It’s where they take Savage when he wins. It’s where the Victor either shares his prize or fucks her in front of his enemies.

It’s strategic what the puppet master does. Making him flaunt his reward around the very men he will soon be killing. It’s to incite them—make them rage against him. Only, they can’t do it. There are solid one-way windows along each wall. They’re being watched, always watched. If a contender starts a fight, they’re dead moments later. Either a sword through the heart, or a straight up bullet to the head. Savage has seen some things…

The Merchant may be hard as nails, but the Overseer is unforgiving. The rules are everything in the Dungeon. On one hand, they fight to the death, and on the other, they must adhere to the laws of this hell, or reap the consequences.

So, essentially, they are animals trapped inside a room, forced to contain themselves like civilized human beings.

Skye squirms in his lap, making him tense for a fleeting second. A spark of pleasure runs through him, and he has to take a moment to savour it.

He’d forgotten what it felt like.

To feel his cock stir.

To feel excitement like that.

He thought that part of him was dead.

“Don’t look up,” he tells her again when her eyes swing up and around the room. If she makes eyes with someone else, he doesn’t know what sort of violence that might illicit. They might want her for themselves. He’s seen it before, the illogical thinking of these men who have been worn down to instinct and feeling.

It’s why he’s had to shut himself down. He doesn’t want to become one of them. He doesn’t want to forget that for most of his life he had an identity.

And right now, Skye is proof of that.

As he looks at her, he feels that man lurking within him. The man that remembers there’s more to life than this.

And fuck, he was so close.

Movements escalate around him. Eyes are drawn to his Golden Bird. Steps come close and then scatter away when he glares in their direction. These men are circling him like sharks, uninterested in the Cattle. No, they want what they suddenly realize they can’t have. He’s staking a claim on her. She’s sitting in his lap, his arm is around her, his hand between her legs. He feels her soft flesh as she jolts from his touch, sucking in a breath of surprise.

“Hunt,” she whispers, anguished.

His resolve weakens.

He fights not to look at her.

He fights the emotion threatening to tear through his cold expression.

The large figures edge nearer, and he grits his teeth, feeling violent.

“Back the fuck away,” he growls.

But they’re not moving far enough. They’re waiting for him to lose interest, to throw his scraps at them to use and abuse.

And he knows then what he has to do.

He has to take her.

He has to prove to them she’s his.

“Flower,” he whispers now, his voice breaking. “Look at me.”

Her head shoots up, and she stares into his eyes. He looks back at her, and he lets her see the conflict. He invites her into his head, and she might break when she realizes what it means.

But her hand shoots up instead, and her fingers trail his damaged face. She traces the familiar scar running down his cheek, her own expression tensing with pain. That memory comes rushing in, brutal and tragic.

Her eyes fall to his lips, filled with tears, filled with love. They stare at each other surrounded by ruthless victors, and she’s the perfect capsule of pleasure for them. Yet she doesn’t shake. She doesn’t cry. She just looks back at him and nods, whispering, “Okay.”