Page 18 of Rescuing Ember

Soft Eyes jerks his head frantically, a panicked twitch as his eyes bulge, pleading for air.

Bruiser releases him with a contemptuous shove. “Now, get back to work. And remember,” his gaze flicks to me, cold and predatory, “they’re not for you. No matter how young and tender.”

The implication hits like a punch to the gut. Bile rises in my throat, and I stumble back, desperate to put distance between myself and these monsters. I glance at Soft Eyes, searching for any sign of protest, any hint of humanity. But all I see is the hunger in his gaze—something sick and twisted, a look that suddenly makes sense in all the worst ways.

Hunger not for me but for the children held in the other cages.

He’s not an ally. He’s not conflicted or hesitant. He’s just another predator, another one of them. I thought I would find some scrap of mercy in him, but now I see it. He’s worse—feeding off vulnerability like a snake waiting to strike. There are no allies here, no hope of kindness.

Just predators and prey.

And I’m trapped in the cage with them.

“Feeding time’s over,” Bruiser growls, his gaze locking onto me, cold and harsh. “You want entertainment, little bitch? I got some ideas that’ll keep that smart mouth of yours busy.”

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I stand tall, refusing to let him see an ounce of fear. I force a lazy smile, meeting his stare head-on.

“Ah, I was getting used to street rat, but little bitch works just as well.” The words burn as they leave my mouth, but I spit them anyway, daring him to make the next move.

He might be bigger and stronger than me, but I’ve been through worse. As his lips curl into a sneer, something flickers in my mind—something familiar yet buried deep in the fog of my past.

A memory flashes—Bruiser much younger, a boy not yet a man, his meaty hands pawing at my clothes. The fear, thick and choking, and the words that doomed me: “Touch me, and I’ll bite your dick off.”

The unbridled anger that followed isn’t something I ever forgot. I insulted his manhood in front of the pack of boys who followed him around like puppies. He couldn’t let the slight go.

Oh no.

He couldn’t let me go.

He taught me a lesson I’ll never forget, even if I shoved the memory of his face into the darkest recesses of my mind.

My gaze drops to his throat, and my breath catches. The faint outline of an old bite mark, jagged and uneven, like a child’s teeth, stares back at me—my teeth. My bite mark.

I can almost taste the blood, almost feel the way I sank my teeth into him, fighting for my life all those years ago.

It’s him.

Bruiser, the man who attacked me when I was just a kid, the one who stole my childhood and left me bleeding as he ripped my virginity from me.

Of course, he wasn’t a man back then. He was just a boy—a kid—trying to survive. Unlike me, he survived by using his fists. Funny how fitting my nickname for him is.

Bruiser.

I’d laugh if it wasn’t so damn pathetic. But he’s not breaking me again—not now, not ever.

Does he remember me? My stomach turns as I search his face for a flicker of recognition, but all I see is hunger, cold, and unfeeling.

Does he rememberwhat he didto me? Or am I just another nameless, faceless victim to him?

My smile falters for the briefest moment, but I hold my ground. He won’t break me again. Bruiser’s eyes narrow, a vein pulsing in his forehead. My words have struck a nerve.

Good.

Bruiser’s massive form fills my vision. He leans in close, breath hot and rancid against my face. “Keep pushing, street rat. Give me a reason.”

“Fuck. You.” I lock eyes with him, channeling every ounce of street-hardened defiance I’ve got.

His hand shoots through a hole in the fencing, fingers tangling in my hair. Pain explodes as he slams my head against the metal. Stars dance in my vision, but I don’t look away.

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