Page 11 of His Mate

After he was finished with the strange metal tool, he slipped his gloved fingers inside of me and I couldn’t help the strangled moan that escaped my lips as he explored me in a way no one ever had before.

I bit my lip as my core squeezed tight, heat coursing through every nerve as I trembled, bare and exposed there on the table.

The exam went on and on, every touch, every prod, every question digging deeper, leaving me feeling raw, exposed, until I thought I was seconds away from breaking.

And then, finally, he pulled his fingers free of me and stepped back, stripping off his gloves and tossing them into a small metal bin.

Was it over?

“She’s healthy,” he said to the woman, who nodded, still scribbling furiously. “Prepare her for the next phase.”

The next phase.

My breath caught, and I stared at him, my heart hammering in my chest, but he didn’t even look at me, didn’t acknowledge the fear that had twisted its way into every part of me, until I felt like I was choking on it.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be taken care of,” he said, his voice distant, detached. “You’re a valuable commodity to us now.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving me strapped to the table, shaking, as the woman stepped forward, her eyes still cold, still indifferent. She leaned over me, her breath warm against my ear, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something—pity, or maybe even regret. I couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, so softly I almost didn’t hear it. And then she was gone, too, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving me alone in the silence.

I stared up at the ceiling, wishing I was back home with Lia and Mariah sneaking out to the movies instead of lying here naked on the exam table waiting for them to come back and get me so that I could be prepared for whatever came next.

So that I could be bred…

I was terrified.

CHAPTER 3

Kendra

The minutes dragged on, stretching into what felt like hours. The cold metal table beneath me bit into my skin as I lay there, bare and exposed, my wrists and ankles still bound by the leather straps.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to lose myself in the cracks, in the peeling paint, anything to keep my mind from spiraling back to what had just happened. But I couldn’t forget. I could still feel his hands on me, the clinical detachment in his touch, the way he’d peeled me open like I was nothing more than a thing to be studied, cataloged, and marked for some future purpose.

The door creaked open, and I flinched, my heart jumping into my throat. The two men stepped back inside, and I felt a wave of heat flush across my skin, the embarrassment flooding through me as their eyes landed on my body.

They stared without shame, without even the courtesy to pretend otherwise, and I could feel my cheeks burning, my breath catching in my chest. I tried to pull my legs together,to hide what little I could, but the restraints held me wide open, exposed, and I hated them for it—hated them for looking, loathed them for seeing me like this.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block them out. It was impossible. The sound of their boots against the tile, the scent of sweat and oil that clung to them, it all filled the room, crowding out everything else. The one with the scar reached down, unbuckling the straps that held my wrists, then my ankles, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my limbs shaking as they were finally released.

“Come on,” he muttered, yanking me off the table. My legs buckled, and I stumbled. I tried to push myself up, but my muscles wouldn’t respond, and I could feel the hot sting of tears pricking at my eyes. The second man grabbed my arm, jerking me to my feet, and I bit down hard on my lip, swallowing the cry that threatened to spill out.

“Walk,” he ordered, and I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to cover what I could as they led me out into the hallway.

The corridor was busier now, filled with other girls being herded along by attendants and guards. Some were like me, red-faced and trembling, trying desperately to hide themselves, while others moved with a kind of numbness, their eyes glazed over, their movements mechanical. I could see the marks on their arms, the red welts on their asses like they had been beaten, and my stomach twisted, a sick, churning feeling that I couldn’t shake.

As we moved down the hallway, I caught sight of one girl being dragged past us, her backside covered in angry red splotches, the handprint on the back of her thigh stark and brutal. Therewas something peeking out from between her bottom cheeks too, a silver bulbous thing that was most definitely shoved into her asshole. My own backside clenched, not wanting to imagine what something like that felt like.

It seemed like it would probably hurt.

Her eyes met mine for just a moment, and I saw the fury there, the shame, the way she was biting back her sobs, and I had to look away, had to tear my gaze from hers before I broke right there in the middle of the hallway.

The scarred man noticed, his mouth curling into a half-smile. “That’s what happens when you don’t cooperate,” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath hot against my ear. “You don’t want to end up like her, do you?”

I shook my head quickly, my throat tightening, and he chuckled, the sound low and rumbling.

“Good girl,” he said, giving my arm a little shake, and I hated how those words made my skin crawl, how they settled into my bones like ice.

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