Cannon

17

Cannon stood on the remains of the shattered table, blood oozing from the victim at his feet. It was, he had to admit, quite the entrance.

A sharp pain, however, reminded him this was not yet over. One of the trios had struck him in his tail. In response, he flicked his tail upward, catching him on the chin and knocking him backward. If he survived, he would have one hell of a headache in the morning.

That left only two. One stood on Cannon’s left and the other on his right. He had to wait to see who would show their hand first.

The one on his right pulled out a switchblade and raised it high above his head. He must have known how tough dragon skin could be to penetrate. Cannon turned the tables on him in that second, where both hands were raised.

The man plunged downward…into nothing. Cannon had shifted and stood naked as the day he was born.

Using the man’s confusion to his advantage, Cannon kicked out, striking him in the solar plexus. With a great exhalation, the man shunted back and hit the wall behind him with full force. He crumpled to the ground.

That left only one.

Cannon turned to him and was met with a punch that made him see stars. This one was big, with meaty hands and red jowls. As Cannon reeled, the man got one more punch to his stomach.

Cannon groaned, backing up as the man approached. But he knew better than to stand right away. Letting the man think he had the advantage could help him.

The man approached, closing the gap between them. Cannon surged forward, his shoulder connecting with the man’s soft belly. It knocked the wind out of him, and Cannon was able to push him across the room until they hit the opposite wall with a satisfying crunch.

The man, not one to give up easily, raised his fists once more, but Cannon was ready. Deflecting a right hook, he caught the man’s jaw with his other hand. The man’s head twisted at a painful angle, and he went down.

For several seconds, Cannon stood panting, reveling in his quick thinking. But he couldn’t savor it for long. Ryver had still yet to be found. He eyed his backpack next to the door. Time to find his mate.

RYVER

Rough hands shoved her forward. She would have fallen flat on her face had her gruff escort not pulled her back in time. She hardly felt grateful to him for the gesture, however. He was the one who shoved her in the first place.

Her hands were bound behind her back, and when he jerked her, intense pain tore through her shoulders. She dared not think about whether the injury in her side had re-opened. It was likely, but she told herself firmly to ignore it. Her whole body ached, so it was easy to disregard the specifics.

However, what could not be denied was the fact that once again, she was in a prison camp. Not exactly bucket list accommodations, and now she’d been subjected to it two times in as many days.

Soon the ragged group reached a small building. From all appearances, nothing good ever happened within its walls, and Ryver tried to keep her eyes on the ground. They entered, and she was immediately shoved into a small cell that had little more than a floor and rickety bare cot. What with the blood all over and the urine and feces smells, it left a lot to be desired as a place to stay.

Her escort, flanked by two other thugs, pointed gruffly for her to position herself near the steel pipe that weaved up the corner of the cell.

“Back against it,” he ordered.

She turned slowly and faced her captor. His rank breath streamed over her, and she held her breath while he reached around to connect the rough bonds that tied her wrists together to the pipe.

In so doing, he had to get awfully close. Ryver tried to keep her mind focused elsewhere as his pasty body rubbed against hers. She didn’t want to give him any satisfaction of being repulsed or otherwise. She just wanted this whole transaction over as quickly as possible.

The ropes secured, he pulled his body back. In so doing, he let his hands drift over her breasts. It was deliberate. No geometry in the world, from her angle, would have meant his hands would be anywhere near them. But he meant to do whatever he wanted.

Something deep within her snapped. Before she could stop herself, she brought her knee sharply up. It connected with a satisfying thump into his crotch.

“Gah,” he yelled, folding in half.

His cronies, standing near the cell entrance, doubled over in laughter.

The man finally righted himself and stared at Ryver. She looked past him like he wasn’t there.

“You be sorry,” he grumbled in broken English. Ryver pretended not to hear. It took all her effort not to spit in his face. That, she knew, would be a step too far.

Mercifully, they left after that exchange, the echoes of their laughter pinging off the bare prison walls.

It was only after the laughter subsided that Ryver allowed herself to take a full breath. Terror and revulsion coursed through her, and she broke into ragged sobs. It didn’t last long, however. She refused to let it overtake her.

Instead, with one foot, she managed to pull the cot near to where she was positioned on the pipe and lowered herself down.

Awkward and uncomfortable, Ryver dropped her head to her chest, closed her eyes. Fear for Cannon filled her. She’d tried to warn him when a soldier swung a pipe at his head, but she hadn’t been quick enough. She panicked when he fell unconscious. She didn’t even know shifters could be knocked out.

Suddenly, screaming and the sound of metal ripping and wood splitting brought her back to glaring alertness.