Captive Mate

Being chained up in a basement wasn’t as bad as being chained up in a cave, an outhouse, or a condemned poultry-processing plant. What did it say about my life that I could draw that comparison? Some might’ve pointed out that I ought to stop doing the shit that led me to be chained up, period.

I disagreed. That was victim-blaming, if you asked me. What was a little necromancy, anyway? Like, the guy I’d turned into a giant wolf-zombie-thing the other day was a complete asshole to begin with. I might’ve even improved his personality.

Not that anyone had asked me. As usual, I’d been ignored other than being locked into spelled manacles and dumped onto the floor of a secured room like so much dangerous trash — the radioactive waste of the supernatural world. Too hot to touch. Too toxic to discard in the open. Nearly worthless if I didn’t cooperate, but still with some potential to be used, if my captors figured out how.

First they’d try to get some magic out of me. Then, when I refused, they’d rape and beat me — they’d get some entertainment that way, if nothing else.

At least, that’s how it had gone before, more than once. Who knew what addled, bullheaded Matthew would do to me, or let his pack do to me, while under the influence of my spell? I’d never been raped by someone who thought he loved me before. Maybe this time I’d get a new experience. Broaden my horizons. Let another fraction of the miniscule bit of faith in humanity I’d held onto all these years shrivel and die. Not that I’d had much to begin with. I had faith in myself. Everyone else was a threat or a mark, and often both.

For now, though, I reclined on the beat-up orange shag carpeting, inhaling the acrid dust of decades that puffed out of it every time I shifted my weight. I closed my eyes, finding my center as well as I could with chains wrapped around me and cutting off my magic, the one thing I’d ever been able to control — other than the occasional undead monster.

I was Arik. I held on to that — the one, unshakable foundation of my identity, the name I’d been given by the only person I’d ever loved.

I was a shaman. A little quiver of ironic laughter there, because I hated that title as much as every alpha I’d ever encountered craved the use of someone who held it.

Sam Kimball was dead.

That allowed me a flicker of a smile. 

And lastly, I had the Armitages’ alpha pack leader by the balls. And if he thought he could use me without reciprocation, he was about to have a rude fucking awakening. Chains, torture, and even fucking shag carpets couldn’t break me. Nothing could break me.

I was Arik, shaman and necromancer and survivor. I did the breaking.

Deep breath. I’d repeat that until I believed it.

I had the chance to repeat it several dozen times before anything happened to disturb me. Footsteps — several sets of them, it sounded like. Fucking yay. Maybe it would be all three of the stooges this time, instead of just Ian Armitage, Matthew’s brother, who’d come downstairs once the day before to growl and shout at me.

I’d ignored him. Then he’d shouted more. Then his mate, that little fucking asshole warlock Nate Hawthorne, had stomped to the top of the stairs and shouted at Ian about how they’d agreed he was going to deal with me himself. Really, I’d had better conversations.

By the time the door to the staircase opened, I’d managed to prop myself up into a half-seated sprawl against the end of an ancient ratty plaid couch. Couldn’t they have put me on the couch? No, of course not, but given how gross it was I was probably better off on the floor anyway.

I stopped short of laying the back of my hand against my forehead like a Victorian lady with the vapors, mainly because my arms wouldn’t stretch like that with the length of my chains. But I thought I probably got the point across. Limp arms, labored breaths, fluttering eyelashes, check check and check. That love-struck fool Matthew didn’t stand a chance. He might take his anger out on me at some point, or let his pack do it for him, but that would serve a purpose too. The more pathetic I looked now, the more guilt he’d store up for me to tap into later.

The first one through the door was Ian. He’d ripped the head off of Sam Kimball, leader of the Kimball pack, in the pack battle two nights before. The goons who’d lugged me down to the basement had made a point of bragging about it. Not that Sam had really been a Kimball anymore, not after the magic I’d laid on him. Either way, no loss there. If the goons thought I’d be crying over Kimball’s death, they didn’t know much.

Of course, it was obvious they didn’t know much. I doubted they knew how to tie their own shoes.

Ian was fucking huge, had an even bigger chip on his shoulder, and hated my guts. I wasn’t going to waste my focus on him, because I already knew how he’d react to any given stimulus: ripping off heads, etcetera. Boring and predictable.

Next came Nate, his mate, the bitch who’d knocked me out with a water bottle of all fucking things. Even in the dingy light of the one bare bulb on the ceiling, he looked better than he had the last time I’d seen him. The other night his dark hair had been matted with filth, his baggy clothes torn up, his face a pale rictus of terror and misery. Now he just looked mildly exhausted and was wearing jeans that fit, if you liked jeans that cut off the circulation to your dick. His brown eyes gleamed with wary suspicion, and he stayed close to Ian.

Matthew was last.

Matthew, with his broad shoulders, intense blue eyes fixed on me like he couldn’t look anywhere else, and a fucked-up mix of longing and loathing written all over his square-jawed face. My only hope for getting out of this alive.

When I’d cast that love spell on him, it’d been at Kimball’s suggestion. Or rather, Kimball had ordered me to get Matthew in line somehow, intending for me to tie Matthew directly to him. The love spell had been my…elaboration. Having Matthew attached to me, rather than to Kimball, had been my ace in the hole. It’d ended up screwing Kimball over, since Matthew had thought he’d been helping to ‘rescue’ me when he brought Kimball’s plans, and barn, down around his head.

Remembering how he’d thrown everything away to make sure I was safe made it a little harder to plan to use the spell against him…but his feelings were fake anyway. He didn’t get credit for them.

And besides, it’d helped me then and it’d help me now. I loved it when I planned ahead.

“Hello,” I whispered. My voice was so hoarse and scratchy I sounded like a three-pack-a-day hooker trying to attract a john. Hopefully they didn’t make that comparison. “Did you forget to bring breakfast again?” I put as much pitiful confusion into my tone as I could, and let my head loll back as if my neck simply couldn’t hold it up. That also had the effect of baring my long, pale throat to Matthew’s no-doubt interested alpha gaze. “What day is it?”

“It’s afternoon,” Nate snapped, just as Ian said, “Go fuck yourself.”

Matthew’s head whipped around so he could glare at his brother. “What the hell?” he demanded. “You told me he’d been looked after. That you were taking care of everything. He’s chained up on the floor and you haven’t even been fucking feeding him?”

I ducked my head — making it look like I was drooping the other direction with hunger and despair, but really to hide a triumphant smile. Score. Discord sown. First volley to me. “I don’t remember when they fed me last,” I said quietly. Sadly. Meekly, even.

Heavy footsteps shook the floor and I braced myself for a hit. “Hey.” Instead, a huge, warm hand wrapped around the back of my neck, the fingers tangling in my long hair and caressing gently under my ear. I glanced up through my lashes. Matthew’s brows were drawn together, and his eyes were soft with worry. “It’ll be all right, Jonah. We’ll get you out of these chains, get you a real meal and a bed, and you’ll be fine. You were confused. That bastard Kimball was threatening you. You’re safe here, I promise.”

Oh, thank fuck, that made for good hearing, even though the sound of the stupid fake name I’d chosen when Kimball’s shaman Adam asked for one three months before made me wince. This was going to be even easier than I’d thought. Matthew was wrapped around my tattooed little finger.

A second later, Matthew’s eyes rolled back in his head, the hand on the nape of my neck went limp, and he toppled to the floor, his head knocking a puff of filthy dust into the air as it thumped into the shag carpet.