Page 2 of Scarred Savages
“Dammit,” Skid curses, rubbing himself through his jeans. “Fucking waste of a good fuck.” He grabs a large container and spills its contents all over my room. “I would have been your first and your last,” he laughs, looking at me with twisted glee.
A sharp, acrid smell claws at my nostrils. My eyes sting, and I blink rapidly, trying to clear the blur of tears and fear.
Gasoline.
The room becomes saturated with its toxic scent.
He splashes the liquid over my bare legs.
“What—what are you doing?” I yell.
“Insurance,” he sneers, the skull tattoo on his neck shifting as he chuckles darkly. “Can’t have you running off now, can we?”
“Please,” I gasp, “don’t do this.”
“Shhh,” he mocks, a matchstick appearing between his fingers. “It’ll all be over soon.”
The scratch of the match head flaring to life is deafening in the gasoline-soaked silence. I watch, heart hammering against my ribs, as the small flame flickers. He dangles it tauntingly, the light reflecting in his crazed gaze.
“Stop!” I scream, pulling against the ropes, but they hold fast, biting into my wrists. “You’re insane!”
“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug, that chilling laughter spilling from him again. “But who’s going to stop me? You?” He hovers the match closer to the ground, and I can almost hear the hungry whispers of the impending inferno. “Any last words, kitty?”
“Go to hell,” I spit; the taste of gasoline bitter on my tongue.
“See you there.” He winks and lets the match fall.
Flames erupt, and smoke chokes me. Within seconds, my room is engulfed. The fire licks at my legs, and I scream as the pain sears through me.
Just before everything goes dark, I see a shadow approaching, and then the pain overwhelms me.
I wake up.
Heart pounding. Sweat-soaked sheets tangled around my legs.
“Just a nightmare,” I tell myself, even though it’s not one.
Not really.
It’s a memory.
1
Luna
Notebook: Female Wolf shifters looking for a mate can be the cruelest creatures. Avoid at all costs. Especially the nails. Those fuckers are sharp!
Eight years later
“That entitled, spoiled bitch just spat on my cupcake,” I mutter, storming back to my room and slamming the door behind me. It’s not the worst thing that’s happened at The Shifter Institute. It’s not even close, but it still grates on my nerves.
Each day here feels like a slow, suffocating death, all wrapped in silk gowns and plastered smiles. The walls may shine with opulence, but beneath that surface lies a gilded cage. A fortressof hushed whispers and hollow grandeur, its halls echo with the pomp and circumstance reserved for royalty. But it isn’t royalty or debutantes who stroll these corridors, it’s female wolf shifters like me, each decked to the nines, their eyes sparkling with hope or desperation.
I can’t always tell the difference.
I drop into the rickety chair in front of the small mirror in my minuscule room and glare at my reflection. “Ugh, this is ridiculous.”
My prep routine is minimal: a quick brush through my silver hair and a dab of scented lotion—because I apparently smell bad.
