Page 74 of The Alpha

The handsome highlander speared him with a look so intense, Peter thought he might soil himself. Oh, gad, had he?! “Ye have a lot of explaining to do lad. Best we wait for the others though.”

“Others?” He sounded like a schoolgirl.

The big Scotsman folded his arms across an impressive chest. “Aye. Ye’ve caused quite a stir.”

“Yes, quite a stirsssk!”

Peter’s eyes bulged. “Who said that?”

The Scot leaned over him again. “That would be wee Tylahs. Yer worst nightmare.”

Peter squeaked again. Now he sounded like a toddler. Folding himself up into a fetal position was sure to be next. That is, if he wasn’t strapped down the way he was.

“How is our prisoner?”

Peter turned his head to the open cell door. Another huge man entered. What was with all the drop-dead gorgeous men in this place? Even his grandmother would be salivating. This one had bright blue eyes, white hair, and was as big as the Scotsman. Bigger in fact. He had to be at least seven feet tall!

“Frightened,” the Scot said.

“Good. He should be.”

The newcomer had not only an accent he didn’t recognize, but a deep voice that cut right through him, as if he could see into his treacherous—no, make that traitorous heart. It wouldn’t take much to make him sing like a bird. But there were some things he had to make sure they didn’t find out.

“Ah, he is awake,” an accented voice said. Peter couldn’t place it. African perhaps?

A third man entered the cell. He was as tall as the one with the white hair, wore purple and yellow robes, and was just as coal black as Peter thought he was when he punched him the first time he woke up. Come to think of it, the Scot punched him the second time.

“Ah, c’mon, guys. Jokes over, okay?” Peter said hopeful. Maybe Vance’s men were pulling some elaborate prank on him. Fat chance, but it was a shot.

“Joke?” The one in the purple and yellow said. He got in Peter’s face. “Do you tink kidnapping an innocent girl, holding her prisoner, torturing her, is a joke?!”

“T-t-torture is a strong w-w-word,” Peter stammered. “I-I took some b-b-biopsies. A few vials of blood…”

“Enough,” the Scot snapped. “What ye did was wrong.” He shoved the other man out of the way, planted his fists on the table—on either side of Peter’s head—and bent to him. “We should kill ye right now, but yer no worth the miniscule effort it would take.”

Peter gulped. “You’re right. I’m not worth it. What we did… was … wrong.”

“It is too late to admit your guilt,” the white-haired one said.

“Markhel, do you wish to dispense justice?” The tall black one asked.

Peter shook his head. “No, Markhel…,” he assumed that was his name. “…bad time for that. You haven’t even asked me any questions yet!”

The Scot smiled. “Dinna fash, we’ll ask plenty of questions.”

Something between a giggle and a groan escaped him. “Of course you will.” He tried not to panic. “Um, did you get them out?”

“Oh yes,” the black man drawled. “And you had better hopehedoes not find out we have you. He will kill you on sight.”

He gulped again. “Ohhhh, you mean….”

“Yes,” the one called Markhel said. “My brother.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “This just keeps getting better,” he whined. “Brother, huh? Oh, I am so dead.”

The tall black man chuckled, then took on a serious look. “What do you dink, Time Master?”

Peter gasped and started to cough. “TIME MASTER!” He struggled in vain against his bonds. Now he definitely sounded like a school girl. Screaming.

---