JASMINE
Not even an hour after I killed Charlie, a man in either his later thirties or early forties with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, tattoos covering his forearms, approached my cell. His distinct gray eyes scanned the entirety of the small room I was in. I could instantly sense this man was evil, a shiver traveling up my spine. My instincts were in full overdrive, my inner wolf howling with fear. I stood up, panicked.
“Hmm, not such a weak mate, I see.” The man spoke with a French accent, scanning the room, smiling evilly at me. I stared at him, wondering what he was planning to do to me. After some time, he said, “I can’t decide if I should cut you up or f**k you. Why not both?” He pulled out a switchblade, exposing the knife to me.
I began hyperventilating and the world was
