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My Sgt. at Arms didn’t so much as blink. The man knew what I was getting at and why. I wouldn’t risk my men in a battle we couldn’t win, but the pull to end this barbarity was undeniable.
It had been driving me since I was a pup, listening at my mother’s knee. No person—human or wolf—deserved to be treated like a commodity. And this year, we finally had a chance to put a stop to this disgusting auction.
Or at least, I hoped we did.
“Benji’s a good kid,” Mongrel replied.
I snorted, remembering some of our wilder days. “Even the best kids get themselves buried in shit.”
Benji had been slated to be one of ours before the Bone Crushers lured him in, not much more than a pup. Plenty of time to destroy the good and mold him into something darker. So, although I wanted to believe his intel and that he’d turned a new leaf, I was skeptical.
Chains was a ruthless son of a bitch. I wouldn’t put anything past that fucker.
“Yeah,” Mongrel grinned right back. “But then the real men get to work and dig their way out, don’t they, alpha?”
“Sure thing, beta,” I smirked.
Mongrel’s face smoothed out into somber reflection. “Reckon that’s what Benji’s doing here, Prez. Sure, he got himself in a hole. But he wants out. And, more importantly, he wants to do right by the poor bastards the Bone Crushers have got caged up in there.”
I nodded. That was all that mattered in the end. And it was up to us, the Soul Reapers, to shut it down. After all, life in a motorcycle club was full of risks. The question was... Were you willing to take the right risks in order to protect those who needed you?
I surveyed my wolves. Some had flasks of whiskey in their hands, others were puffing on a final smoke to calm their nerves. I tapped a cigarette out of the pack I kept in my cut, and lit the end with a flick of my lighter. Drawing a deep breath of the curling miasma of tobacco and tar into my lungs, I turned back to my Sgt. at Arms.
Lives hung in the balance but the conviction in Mongrel’s unwavering gaze was infectious.
The skin trade was the lowest of the low. The fact that the Bone Crushers were hosting it tonight of all nights—when once the Chaos would’ve begun, if it hadn’t deserted us nine years ago—and passing it off as a ‘Mate Auction’ only made it worse.
No one knew why the Chaos had deserted our kind but I figured we deserved it. My father had been just like these soulless fuckheads. He’d taken the magic for granted, too. Now we were being punished for our forefathers’ sins.
My knuckles were white as I gripped the handles of my bike, grinding my teeth as more latecomers swaggered into the building. Full of macho bullshit and camaraderie, reveling in the stench of fear wafting on the breeze. It made my skin crawl.
What piece of shit could delude themselves into trying to force a mating bond on a person who smelled like sour sweat, bitterness and fear?
CAGE OF INSANITY
Sasha
After Chains’ little show, I’d steeled myself to be taken straight to the main bar of the clubhouse. Instead, I was led down the back staircase toward the yard. Immediately, my palms began to sweat and my mouth went sandpaper dry.
A small moan puffed out of my lips before I could stop it.
Not the kennels.
You’d think, given I was heading for fresh air and clear skies, that my heart would have been rejoicing after months of confinement. Sadly, this was just another tool in the sadistic alpha’s arsenal. The Prez of the Bone Crushers MC had turned going outside into a form of torture.
About once a week, we were run—naked—in the yard like animals. It was our only form of exercise. Endless laps followed with burpees, sit ups and squats which we were forced to do until our bodies shut down. Rinse and repeat.
I’d heard the VP and Prez discussing their tactics. The grueling sessions had been designed by Venom as a way to both put us in our place and to maintain our bodies so that we didn’t waste away completely in captivity.
It was also a form of entertainment for the Bone Crushers. The MC and their bitches lined up along the buildings, beers in hand as they hooted and hollered, taking bets on who would fall first. Once someone no longer responded to a good kicking they were dragged back to the room to recover.
That was the good reason to be taken outside.
The much less desirable option was being put in the kennels.
Across the way from the main clubhouse, the kennels were a row of steel cages lined up on one wall of the barn, which had been converted into a mechanic shop. In the late afternoon, they fell into blessed shadow but during the heat of the day they languished in the desert sun. Each four-sided square of hell had a small bucket for ablutions, a tin mug, a canister of water and a moth-eaten hessian sack that stank of rotten hay and Gods knew what else.
The cages were used for one of two things. To break in a new acquisition or as a form of punishment, usually after receiving a beating for being mouthy. Needless to say, I’d spent more than my fair share of time there.
