Page 46 of Feral Possession

“One. Not two.” He tapped a claw-tipped finger on the floor. “Game now.”

“Fine,” she groaned. In all fairness, she’d asked her question and received an answer. That answer being lost in translation wasn’t her fault. Regardless, she’d show Marcus she could get more intel out of the creature without him controlling every word she uttered. After all, you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. Despite what that nasty Carina believed.

“The name of the game is war.”

“War?” The demon perked up, black eyes gleaming, pupils narrowing to tiny red specks. “I like thisss game.”

“Thought you might.” She dealt the cards into two neat piles and pushed his stack over the threshold of the ward, careful not to cross it herself.

“Object is to win all the cards.” While squeezing info out of the demon. He was already familiar with the suits and numbers from playing poker, so she quickly explained the rules and flipped over her first card. “I understand you were pretty upset over the cage.”

“Hmm,” he grunted, flipping over his card and pushing the pile to her when he lost the round.

“Being stuck inside of a host must feel the same, like being trapped.” This was a statement, not a question. She congratulated herself. I am a tricksy interrogator.

“Not cage. Freedom.”

Questions burst into her brain, and she considered the best way to propose them. “You make it sound as though being in a host is better than being in Carcerem.” The next round went to him, and she pushed the cards over.

“Better. Not free in Carcerem.” He glanced around the room, then back at her. For once, she witnessed zero hostility in his eyes.

Wait. She recognized that look. Was that… pity? Her spine stiffened.

“Like you. Not free,” he said, confirming her suspicion.

She hesitated to flip her next card. “What do you mean?” Dang it. She’d asked a question.

He smirked as though he knew she’d screwed up. “Not free.” He pointed at her neck.

Apparently, questions were fine if they were talking about her issues instead of his. Go figure. She rubbed the brand on her throat. “I’m free.”

“Pet,” he sneered, his growly voice taunting.

Outrage pounded in her veins. After an evening of Carina spewing poison at her, belittling her at every turn, throwing her superior position in her face, Dove was over being treated badly. “I am not Marcus’s pet. I’m his Chosen. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” She slapped her cards down.

In a flash, sharp claws captured her hand, and her arm wrenched in its socket. Pain exploded through her shoulder, wrenching a scream from her throat. The world spun, and she crashed into a wall of unforgiving muscle. Firm arms slammed around her.

“No.” She gasped, muscles locked up. Once again, terror had turned her into a useless block of ice. The demon had her. How? Her brain struggled to keep up. Her fingers. Dang it. When she slapped her cards down, she’d crossed the barrier. The wily bastard. While she distracted him, he’d distracted her, waiting for his chance to pounce.

She peered up at him, sitting in his lap, his arms two iron bands locked around her torso. The strength in those arms. He’d pop her like a roll of bubble wrap.

“I win.” He grinned down at her, flashing a terrifying number of sharpened teeth.

Spots flashed behind her eyeballs. Her chest tightened.

“Breathe,” Shadow-Steele demanded, sounding an awful lot like his host.

Breathe? Right. Oxygen. She sucked a gulping breath, filling her lungs. What should she do? She should scream, punch him in the larynx, jab her thumb in his eyes, knee him in the gonads. She should… what? In reality, she’d never truly been accosted. In that moment—the moment that really mattered—all the training Vivian had instilled in her, the self-defense classes, the weapons training. All of it went—poof—out the window.

Instead, Dove stared at her attacker, betrayal piercing her chest, bottom lip rolling out. Like an idiot, she’d thought they were connecting. When, in fact, he was plotting against her. “Why?” She panted, swallowing tears. “Why did you do that?” To kill her, to eat her, to break her into a million pieces as he did everything else?

“Curiousss.”

She stared back at him, stunned. “Curious? About me?” This did little to erase visions of her gruesome death at his hands. Was he curious to see how easily her head would twist off? To discover how she would taste? What?

He burrowed his nose into her hair, sniffing. “Sssmell good.”

Like chicken? She hoped not. She needed to get away, back over the threshold to safety. Think, Dove. Think.

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