Page 1 of Ruthlessly Mated
CHAPTER 1
Kita
“My Rules. Apply. To. You.”
A very large, very handsome, and incredibly dangerous man is looming over me. His eyes flash with animal instinct and intense desire. He is twice the size of me, so large that one of his hands could wrap around both of my wrists. I know this because he’s holding me that exact way right now.
My ass is burning, not to mention exposed. The eyes of a whole mess of hardened criminals are on me.
His cock surges between my trembling legs. I am being taken. Ravaged. Mated.
These are all words, but there’s one that I can’t quite bring myself to acknowledge.
I can’t resist it, though. I cannot stop thinking it, even though I really don’t want to.
It forces itself through my mind. It lodges inside my head the same way his cock sheathes inside me.
Bred.
A few hours ago…
I had hoped to avoid this. I tried very, very hard to avoid it, actually. I sailed into this shady port under cover of darkness, hoping to find it largely empty and quiet.
It was anything but. I got in too early, after nightfall, but long before people pass out and I can do what I want to do without being seen. I have to wait for my cargo to be unloaded onto the truck I brought. I wanted to get out of here right away, but the cranes are busy and they won’t let me operate one by myself.
I hover on the dock, trying not to look uncertain, because uncertain means I’m potentially a target for people who are looking for easy targets. It’s not easy being a five-foot-fuck-all woman in a place like this. I am doing my best to look intimidating. I have thick, chunky boots, dark leather pants, and a long knife displayed prominently at my waist. I’m wearing a short jacket that bristles with patches and warnings, and a thick sweater that kept me warm on the journey over the sea. I hate traveling over water. It sloshes around and it sloshes you around with it. At least I started to feel better as soon as I made landing. This dock is a lifesaver.
The port is alive with light and sound and music. People are stumbling up and down the docks, intermittently falling into the water and pulling themselves up or being fished out by friends.
Others are lurking. There’s a lot of that here. This is not a port run by any regional authority. This is a private port, i.e., a smuggler’s port. It doesn’t officially exist, which means it is one of the most important hubs for commercial activity in the region. The far south is full of places like this, facilities and services that used to be run by humans back in the day, before werewolves and vampires came out of the shadows and demanded equal rights. The economy collapsed around the same time, and a lot of people say the two events are connected. Others say it’s because of inflation and over-investments in real estate by an increasing minority of owners, but that’s a lot less sexy than blaming it on dogs and bats.
This port is very supernatural friendly. I have already spotted several red-eyed vamps, and I can smell wolves all around. Normal people don’t care about supernaturals here, because they’re far too busy doing crime.
I’ve never been in Port Denhome before, but it’s living up to its reputation.
Everyone here is a criminal.
Including me.
I get a little thrill when I think about it that way. It’s like finally being embraced by my own kind. I don’t have to pretend to be nice or kind. Actually, being either nice or kind would get me killed. This is a place where the worse you are, the better you do.
I pace underneath a sign with the same message on it as most of the signs posted high and low. They clearly don’t want us to be able to say we didn’t see them.
All Cargo Taxed. Pay at the Bursar.
Shirkers Will Suffer Pain of Death.
I tell myself that in a lawless world, breaking the rules doesn’t mean much.
I tell myself I’m not doing anything wrong.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter that I’m doing something wrong.
This is a smuggler’s port, a place where people don’t respect anything besides physical force, and occasionally force of will. But mostly force. There’s a lot of force. Everyone bristles with guns, and flosses with piano wire. Great gums and no mercy. We don’t care about signs. So, I don’t care about signs.
I approach one of the dock workers, a man who is wearing no shirt and has a massive anchor tattoo across his back, as well as on each bicep, and on his pecs. He’s absolutely covered in tattoos of anchors. Almost like nobody told him that he could get anything else. He also has a very bushy and long beard all the way to his gut.
“Are the cranes going to be much longer? My container will only take a second to put on the flatbed.”
