I ignore him and turn to Ivan, “Bring you whips,” I order him and march down the metal walkway toward the torture room. James Hanson is in there against the walls with his hands and legs tied up and his torso bare.
He cranes his neck to look at me, “Alpha!” He screeches, “I am sorry. It wasn’t me!” He pleads.
I step toward him until I am just behind him. “You didn’t try to poison my mate and unborn pup?” I ask in my tone.
James trembles, and I can smell the distinct odor of urine. “I am so sorry, Alpha,” He starts to blubber. “I am so, so sorry. They told me to do it,” He sobs.
“Quit crying,” I demand.
There is a quick knock, and Ivan walks in with his box of whips. He sets them on a metal table, and I look in the box
