Page 23 of Heir of the Beast

Mort looks at me and scowls, shaking her head no.

I don’t have time to feel relief. They hoist us up like we are rag dolls and force us up the ladder.

Minutes later, I find myself dumped on a hard surface, water puddling around me. I am dripping, breathing hard, and scared to look up.

I feel the tension like a cloud of thick smog, my nerves making my body shake like a scared rabbit. I have lifelines, I remind myself.

I feel Mort beside me, pinching my leg and whispering for me to get off my ass. Since when is Mort such a bossy potty mouth?

I hear murmurs and grumbles everywhere.

“Stand, woman,” the man who saved us orders, and jerks me up by the arm, hurting me. I bite my lip, keeping the hiss of pain to myself.

When I look up from under my soaked hair, I realize they are bringing other prisoners out, who are shackled at the neck and ankles. They look skinny and beaten down, and bruises mar their dirty skin.

I shiver, wondering what kind of hell they must have endured. Mort stands on her own, and soon there is a long line of us.

Dear God, am I considered a prisoner? Is a slave any different here?

I swallow a moan back down my throat and will myself to stand firm. I flinch as I gaze at all the men in front of me, with their muscular forms and armored bodies.

On their uniforms is a large G with a pointed line down the middle. Simple but strong—intimidating. They do not look like a friendly lot. Wouldn’t want to golf with them on a Sunday afternoon.

A look of scorned indifference graces everyone’s features, their eyes seemingly focused on ME. I quickly look down and take another shaky breath.

I’m wet, my clothes torn—thanks to Charming—and breasts on display to a bunch of heathens who probably have not seen a woman in a long-ass time.

If rape is on their menu, I will happily use my lifeline with no complaints. When I get back, I will knee Charming in the groin, and then I will have my happily-ever-after.

The ship’s deck is massive with tall poles that carry sky-scraping masts, catching the wind with each violent whip.

I glance back up and can see a large, two-story staircase that leads into a three-story glass cabin. Or whatever they call this metal creation on water.

I would not want to run into this warship on the black sea; this rig probably never saw a loss.

I look closer and see machine guns with strange sapphire lights glowing within a place where you’d think cannon balls would go. Yeah, these guys mean business.

A tall man with a long, narrow face stands a couple of feet in front of me with a clipboard. He looks ratty, and his nose twitches as he stares at me. My heart stops.

“Snake eyes,” he says in a condemning tone. “Where are you from? To whom do you owe your allegiance?”

My arms move, thankfully. I show him my necklace and wrist tattoo, and Mort does the same. He stares at it for a while, then glances back at me with a leering grin, eyes traveling down my body, licking his thin lips.

“Very nice,” he whispers. “Were you on the McDon’s merchant ship, then?”

I nod.

“Any other survivors?” he snaps.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Keep your eyes down, slave!” he commands, making me jump.

“His Highness will not like this news.” He whips around and speaks to the short, portly man to his right.

“I believe this is worthy of Prince Apollo’s attention. Sirona Bandits strike again in the same week. Will you go and inform him that his presence is needed?”

The ratty man turns to look in the direction of the glass cabin.

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