Page 11 of Unleashed

Thatguy is hot. Devastatingly, dangerously handsome, if cruel. Decidedly used to getting his way it seems, and for some reason, which is wildly confusing to me, he hates me. He's obviously powerful, so I can only assume I’ve done something to offend him. Too bad I have no idea what that is.

But because this young woman next to me seems like an ally, I can maybe use her kindness to my advantage.

I push through the discomfort and use my voice. It hurts. Who knew that it could actually hurt to speak? But my chest tightens, and my throat is dry. "How long have I been here?" I begin with an easy question. Something that should be simple enough for her to answer without fearing the wrath of the man.

She leans in, her voice kind. "You came here last night, and you've slept all day.”

Not long, then. How did I get here?

When he stalks toward me, the young girl sits up straighter, her eyes wide in fear. “Rafail,” she says, pleading.

“You know what she did. I’m not going to be gentle,” he says in a growl. “Do I need to excuse you from her care?”

“No,” she whispers, her face pained as she turns away.

“I promise. I won’t hurt her in front of you.”

I blink in shock. In front of her? What will he do when he has me alone?

He looms over me like a fire-breathing dragon, and I shrink back on the sheets.I’m not going to be gentle.Who is he? Who amI? What did I do that’s infuriated him?

He’s tall and unyielding, his large frame filling the space between us. I’m dwarfed by him. His face is all sharp angles and hard edges—dark-brown eyes glaring at me, a chiseled jaw clenched in barely contained rage, a full mouth pressed into a cruel line as if he’s holding back a thousand things he wants to hurl at me. Dark stubble graces his sharp jawline, adding a raw, dangerous, masculine edge to his flawless appearance.

His eyes are dark and intense, a deep, bottomless black that seems to drink everything in, pinning me in place. They’re cold, and yet, something like fire burns in their depths. Broad shoulders fill out a pressed white dress shirt, his muscles straining against the fabric. A man built for dominance. Strength. A man made forWar.

I stare at his arms corded with muscle, large, capable hands, one clenched at his side while the other rests on the edge of the bed, trapping me as if the handcuffs aren’t enough. Leaning over, he inspects my injuries in silence, as if… as if I belong to him. It’s disconcerting. No, it’s terrifying.

“Who are you?” I whisper when he brushes his fingers along my jaw, his thumb grazing my lips. Fear spikes my pulse, and I try to turn away but can’t. The touch is so… intimate. Possessive. And he’s a stranger to me.

A shadow crosses his features. Frowning, he asks me, “You really don’t know?”

I shake my head. Pain explodes in my skull and along the back of my neck. I wince.

Moving his hand to cup my cheek, he whispers to me, “All you need to know is that you’re mine, and you’re not going anywhere now.”

I shiver at his touch, consumed with an odd mixture of fear and curiosity. Before he releases me, he brushes a kiss to my forehead, but it doesn’t feel tender. It’s like he’s showing me that hecan.A searing touch that feels more like a statement than a caress, more like a claim than affection.

Turning, he stalks to the door, leaving me with the young woman. Girl?

"I’m in so much pain,” I say in a low voice to the young woman. "Do you really think it necessary for me to be shackled to this bed?"

"I think it's necessary to do whatever my brother tells me to do," she says in a little voice. "And soon you'll learn that's true for you too."

Her brother. Now we're getting somewhere.

I press on. "It's uncomfortable being chained like this."

With a look of chagrin, she wrings her hand for a fraction of a second before she nods. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I really can't let you go."

Tears blind my eyes. I don't ever recall feeling this helpless, but then again, I don't recall much of anything. It’s like waking from a nightmare only to realize you’re still dreaming.

I take a shaky breath and let it out.

"What's your name?" I ask quietly. Can she answer that? Her brown eyes are as soft as a doe’s, her thin face pinched.

"Zoya,” she whispers.

I ask her the question that plagues me, my voice trembling. “What’s mine?”

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