Page 8 of His Mate

“Let me go!” I screamed, pounding my fists against his back, but he ignored me, carrying me down the stairs like I was a sack of potatoes. I twisted around, trying to catch one last glimpse of Mariah and Lia, but all I saw was the door slamming shut, cutting them off, and something broke inside me.

By the time we reached the ground floor, I’d stopped struggling. What was the point? The man dropped me onto the cracked pavement outside, and I stumbled, falling to my knees. When I looked up, I saw a car, sleek and black, its paint still shining, even in the dim morning light. It looked almost out of place here, like it had wandered in from another world, a world from more than a hundred years ago.

Cars were a rarity these days. Most of them had been stripped for parts or rusted away to nothing, but this one… this one looked almost new.

“Get in,” the scarred man ordered, yanking open the back door, and I wanted to tell him to go to hell, to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere, but my legs were already moving, and before I knew it, I was sitting in the backseat, the door slamming shut beside me.

The engine roared to life, and I felt the rumble of it deep in my bones, felt it shiver up my spine, and I pressed my forehead against the window, watching as the world outside blurred into motion. We drove through the city, through the crumbling buildings and the twisted remnants of what had once been streets, but it all felt distant now, like I was watching it from somewhere far away.

Like this was all nothing more than a bad dream…

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, not expecting an answer, but needing to say something, anything, to fill the silence.

The man with the scar didn’t even glance back. “It’s just the way things are,” he said, like that explained everything. Like that made it all okay when it didn’t.

We drove for what felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. The landscape changed around us, the buildings becoming taller, sturdier, their surfaces less pockmarked and broken, until finally, we pulled up in front of a skyscraper that loomed over everything else. It was pristine, its windows intact, reflecting the morning light like a beacon, and for a moment, I just stared, my mind struggling to make sense of it.

It didn’t belong here. It was like some relic from the past, a piece of the world that had refused to die with the rest of us.

“Out,” the scarred man said, yanking open the door, and I hesitated, my fingers digging into the seat, but he reached in, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out with the same ease he’d thrown me over his shoulder.

I stumbled, nearly falling, but he held me upright, his grip like a vise, and dragged me toward the revolving doors.

“Keep moving,” he muttered, and I felt my legs start to work again, one step, then another, until we were inside, and the door swung shut behind us.

The lobby was bright, gleaming, and I blinked against the sudden light, my heart thudding in my ears. There were others here—men in suits, their faces smooth and unlined, their clothes too clean, too perfect, and they all turned to look at me, their eyes curious, hungry.

The two men led me over to an elevator and the doors slid open with a soft chime. I felt a hand shove me forward. The scarred man stood behind me, his face set in that same expression of dull indifference, as if I were nothing more than a task to be checked off his list.

I lifted my chin and tried to remain as brave as I dared.

I stepped inside, and the second man crowded in behind me, the space suddenly too small, too hot. The air felt thin, and I struggled to draw in a breath, my chest tightening as the doors slid shut, trapping us in this metal box.

We began to descend, the numbers ticking down slowly on the screen above, and I could feel the drop in my stomach, the way it made me feel weightless, like I was falling. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms until it began to hurt. It was asmall pain, something to focus on, something to keep me from screaming.

I’d never been in a working elevator before, and I didn’t like it one bit.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, and I braced myself, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise in my throat. The doors slid open, and I blinked, momentarily blinded by the harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead. The hallway stretched out before me, sterile and white, with steel doors lining both sides, and the faint, acrid scent of bleach hung in the air, mingling with something else—something metallic and sour.

It made my stomach twist into knots.

The two men led me down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the walls, and with every step, I felt my skin crawling, my instincts screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something. But I couldn’t. I could only move forward, one foot in front of the other, as they took me deeper into this wretched place.

We reached a door at the end of the hall, and the scarred man knocked twice. It swung open, and I was shoved inside, stumbling over the threshold, my shoulder slamming into the wall. I caught myself and looked around, wincing as pain shot up my arm.

The room was small, dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb that hung from the ceiling. There were four women waiting inside, all dressed in pale blue uniforms, their faces blank and expressionless. They moved toward me in unison, their eyes sliding over me like I wasn’t even there, like I was already something less than human.

“Strip,” one of them said, her voice flat and emotionless, and I blinked at her, not comprehending.

“What?” I croaked, my throat dry.

“Take your clothes off,” she repeated, more impatient this time, and I just stood there, my heart pounding in my ears. “Now.”

I hesitated, my hands trembling, but one of the other women stepped forward, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and I flinched, feeling her nails bite into my skin.

“Don’t make this difficult,” she said, and there was something in her tone—something hard, unyielding—that made my blood run cold.

I swallowed hard and nodded, my hands moving on their own, unbuttoning my shirt, sliding it off my shoulders. I dropped it to the floor, and then my jeans, my fingers fumbling over the zipper, every motion slow, mechanical. It took me even longer to reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, and when it came time to lower my panties, I froze.

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