Page 4 of Mated Exile

Blood-sucking ugly-ass motherfuckers. If you ask me, the humans got it wrong when it madethosethings into sex symbols. They're one step away from zombies, rotting flesh and all. Just because they're well-preserved doesn't mean they're not absolutely gag-worthy.

It takes several long, excruciating moments for the effect of whatever paralytic they used on me to weaken enough that I can move. Groaning, I force myself into a sitting position, brush the dust off myself, and observe my surroundings.

Unsurprisingly, I'm in some kind of cell. Crawling forward—my legs and feet are still numb—I reach out to touch the bars and wince back as energy skitters across me. Clearly they're made of iron. The myths and legends got that one wrong: vamps can touch the stuff all they want. So can werewolves, technically, but something about the pure metal sets our teeth on edge, because it tends to push our energy back at us like some kind of funky mirror.

It's not enough to stop me from being able to use that iron key in the lock if I steal it off him, though. Just enough to make me really, really angry. Especially because the iron means I won't be able to shift back into a wolf and bust out of here.

Folding my numb and tingly legs beneath me, I swivel around to get a good luck at the back half of the cell—and freeze as my eyes fall on the distinct form of another figure in here with me.

It can't be. But it is.

The damn bloodsuckers put me in with the other werewolf. The one theyjustforced me to fight, who they kept chained in that arena like some kind of rabid animal, andorderedto kill me like it was nothing.

He stirs out of his slumber, a rumbling sound leaving his chest. At first I cringe back, wanting as much space as possible between the two of us. As soon as I do, I realize it won't matter. No matter how far away I get from him, we're still locked inside a cell of iron bars, and there's no avoiding that.

He's probably my closest thing to an ally around here, especially since the alternatives are vamps. And if he's been here for a while, he must know the terrain. Maybe I can get his help breaking out of here—or join him on whatever plan for freedom he's already concocted up.

First, though, I want to make sure I've got the upper hand. So I unfold my legs and punch them several times, going up and down their length until feeling returns to them, gritting my teeth the whole time. Then I test their strength by standing up and walking. My feet are wobbly beneath me, but they bring me across the cell to the other werewolf.

Standing over him, I'm struck by how scarred his skin is. It wasn't immediately obvious in the arena while he was curled on his side, hair spilling over his arms, but now he's positioned on his back. The sweatpants on his hips hide most of his legs; the rest of what I can see is covered in a criss-cross of scars, from his thick, muscular arms, to the harsh planes of his chest, and even his sculpted abs.

There isn't an inch of him that doesn't show signs of battle, including his shockingly handsome face. Two thick brows cover stunning amber eyes that are now closed; the left brow has a thick scar running through it from his hairline down to the edge of his eyelid, its nearness to blinding him making me wince. A second scar slashes across the right side of his face, through a high cheekbone down to a sharp, symmetrical jaw. The third and final facial scar bisects thick lips with a sharp cupid's bow torn just slightly by an enemy's claws.

Only his long, aquiline nose, with its high bridge and curved nostrils, is free from marring. The rest of his skin tells a story, and it's one that's difficult to read without wincing in sympathy.

He's been down here with the vamps for a long, long time.

Which suggests I might be down here with the vamps for just as long, if I don't do something about it.

The other story his scars whisper—a story I'm hesitant to tell myself—is one of a long line of enemies who will never get up to attack him again. I'm able to see into the dungeon all around our cell, and its dark depths reveal no one but us. Not a single other prisoner, or even one bar to a second cage.

Whoever he's been fighting, they haven't lived to tell the tale.

His eyes fly open, and I fight the instinct to jump back. Bright amber irises widen as his pupils shrink down in the torchlight, his gaze startled as he stares up at me. I consider him, glad for this brief moment where he's paralyzed and helpless but I'm not.

"I think they left us alone," I tell him, my eyes sweeping the darkness and my nose inhaling no active, putrid vampire scent. "I'd take that as a good sign for our eventual escape, but I get the sense that they haven't stayed down here to guard us because they know we won't be getting out. I was hoping maybe you could confirm that observation, and tell me if there's a good time for us to plan our escape."

A long, agonizing moment stretches out as he considers me. I can't read his face, but I don't know if that's because he's still partially paralyzed, because he's silently considering my proposal, or because he's really, really good at hiding his emotions. For all I know he could be plotting a second round of fighting here in the cell, whether the vampires order it or not.

Crossing my arms, I do my best to breathe steadily, my heart racing, because all I want to do is run screaming from this situation. I'm hoping that since I opened with a suggestion we're already allies, he'll just go along with it. Now that he's said nothing in response, that seems stupid. I should've gone with a soft opener instead.

"What are you?" His voice is dazed as he sits up on his elbows, movements wobbly, the muscles of his arms struggling to keep him up. "How did you do that?"

I blink at him. Surely he knows...? "I'm a werewolf. We can all shift to and from wolf form. Including you."

"I'm not an imbecile," he snaps, and I do step back this time, wary of the annoyance that darkens his expression. "I know whatIam. I asked you whatyouare."

"And I told you, I'm a werewolf."

The man crosses his legs and leans forward, tilting his chin up towards me. I still myself, heart kicking like a frightened rabbit, mentally preparing to shift into my wolf form if I have to. This iron-barred cell would be torture to fight in, with its pure metal searing my skin, but at least I'd have a chance.

After several long, deep inhales, the man shoots me a perplexed expression. "I don't know what you are, but you're no werewolf."

"Didn't you just see me—"

"I know what my nose tells me," he interrupts. "And I also know that there's no werewolf out there who can make a lone wolf shift back into human form, the way you did to me in the arena."

"I didn't do that."

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