Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

from behind. She shuffled sideways—paper slippers sliding on her feet, hospital johnny brushing her knees—desperate for more distance between her and the guard at her back.
    The rat-bastard.
    Yeah, the name had a nice ring to it. Then again, maybe “black-eyed son of a bitch” was a better fit. Asshole Razorback sounded good too. Well, whatever she called Lothair, it wasn’t “friendly.” The guy carried mean like a baseball bat and knew how to wield it.
    “Ready to see your new home, female?” the rat-bastard asked, shifting closer, making her lean away, his boots scraping the steel floor while her heart pounded. “You’ll like cellblock A. It’s cozy. And you’ll have company.”
    Angela’s stomach twisted into a knot. Thus far she’d avoided talking to Lothair. She couldn’t stand his proximity, never mind the sound of his voice, but…
    She couldn’t let that intel go. If other women were imprisoned in the Razorback complex, she needed to know.
    “How many?” As the question left her mouth, she winced. God, she sounded raw. Like the victims of violent crimes she talked to every day. But then, she guessed that description fit her to a T now. And just the thought made her want to sit down and cry. “How many are here?”
    “Two so far. With more to come.” He hummed behind her, his pleasure so obvious Angela wanted to turn and take his head off. Too bad she didn’t have a weapon. “High-energy females just like you…good breeders. Good feeding, better tasting than the whores downtown. Hmm, yeah. I can’t wait for another taste of you, sweetheart.”
    Angela clenched her teeth, refusing to react to the endearment. Lothair was smart, ruthless with a slap-happy helping of brutal. He wanted her to remember the feeding, to relive the press of his mouth against her throat, hard hands on her body, the awful suck and draw and…
    Uh-uh. No way.
    She refused to go there. Didn’t want to relive a second of the violation or dwell on the fact Lothair had taken something vital from her. What? She didn’t know exactly, but the awful experience wouldn’t leave her alone. Kept reminding her until her eyes burned with the threat of tears. She blew out a shaky breath and pushed the panic away: compartmentalizing the pain, moving the memory to a different mental zip code while she brought another front and center. One she couldn’t quite touch but knew was there…buried in her mind, surrounded by some sort of impenetrable wall.
    R. She remembered a name that started with R . And something else too. Pale blue eyes: beautiful, concerned, shimmering in the darkness. She clung to the visual and how it made her feel—safe, sane, strong enough to cope with whatever came next.
    Which needed to be a swift kick in the pants.
    Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help. Resourcefulness and a quick mind, however? Yeah, those were vital. She was tough, skilled, and able to set the parameters of what she allowed to hurt her. And as she set up mental roadblocks and retreated behind psychological barricades, she glanced over her shoulder. Brown eyes met hers, the color so dark the pupils blended with the irises. Leveling her chin, she made herself a promise. “I’m going to kill you, you know that?”
    He laughed. “I’d love for you to try, she-cop. Please…try.”
    The murmur was eerie, like the creak of frozen tree limbs in winter, the sound of isolation and mass murder. And as fear slithered along her spine, Angela smothered a shiver to keep it from surfacing. The sadist SOB would love that. Oh, yeah. Nothing got him off more than the sight of her afraid. She’d learned that the hard way in the examination room. She quashed the memory. Her experience with him proved the bastard liked her cowed to the point of subservience. He was diabolical, really. Brilliant with a capital B. Lothair was a tactician with brutal focus: accessing her weakness, using it against her, revving her imagination into the danger zone.
    God, what was taking the elevator so long? She needed out. Away from the bastard pushing her buttons because…
    She could smell him. Feel him staring at her even though she wasn’t looking at him. And as his eyes moved over her—ever watchful, always waiting—her stomach pitched. Muscle tightened over her bones, preparing to let fly. It would feel so good to hit him. Just wind up and send her elbow into his face. To feel the crack as she broke his nose and heard his roar of pain. But she’d