Dark Side Of The Moon (BBW Paranormal Were-Bear Shifter Sci-Fi Romance) (3 page)

“Veronica…”

She’d
been sitting up, leaning against the wall, clutching her messenger bag, but she
must have dozed off. A dull hunger headache had started behind her eyes, and
she’d closed them for just a minute, trying to make it go away. She opened her
eyes. Satasha was staring at the narrow end of the room. “What…?”

“Noises…someone’s
outside…men.”

There
was a hiss, and then a metallic Clank and a whoosh. The end of the room slid
open, revealing darkness. As she peered into that dark, a man stepped out of it,
and into the subdued light of the blue metal room. Every cell in her body came
to life, adrenaline surging through her. Sliding the strap of her bag over her
head, she pushed it away from her, got it out of the way. She could take him,
she knew it. She just needed the right chance, the right opportunity. First,
she had to know who she was up against.

Standing,
feet set wide, weight back, she faced the stranger. “I want to know…”

He
tried to slap her, but missed, instead knocking her backward as she scrambled
out of his reach. She’d seen the flash in his eyes, a moment before he lashed
out. She twisted, rocked back, and escaped the blow. The sudden fear, however,
echoed through her chest, a wave of nausea rising up. She took a deep breath, and
held her ground.

The
man looked like he wanted to give it another shot. He was snarling, showing several
gaps where his teeth should be. Out of habit, instinct, her hands curled into
fists. The man’s snarl turned into a grin; he raised his hands, curling them
into fists, just like hers.

“Come
get it, bitch.” The words were English, but the accent wasn’t. But she didn’t
have time to play nationality roulette at the moment.

“Stop.”

Veronica
never took her eyes off the man, but he lowered his hands just a fraction of an
inch, his eyes flickering away from hers, to the voice behind him. She swung
hard, hitting him in the jaw. His head rocked back, then he turned, still
wearing that damned grin.

It
was like hitting a piece of iron. Pain shot from her knuckles to her shoulder,
and then her whole arm went numb. She gasped, dropped her hand. The man spat a
gobbet of bloody spit at her feet.

“Enough,
Samuel. Get…back.” The man grabbed him by the shoulder, and Samuel took a step
away from Veronica. “And you, sit.” The man took a step toward Veronica. She
backed away, until she felt the bench against the back of her knees. Then she
sat.

From
her seat on the low bench, in the cramped space, the men looked like giants. At
a quick estimate, she’d have put all two of them well over six feet tall. They
were both well muscled, not like body builders, but like men who had muscles
for a reason. If she had to guess, she’d say military, by their bearing, and
the clothes. They wore what looked like fatigues, worn, dark gray, but with
strange gray mesh padding on the knees and shoulders.

Samuel
took up his position at the end of the room, his head bowed low. Veronica
looked up at the strange man who stood taller, prouder than Samuel. Clearly, he
was the leader. His uniform was black, the mesh brighter, more of it too,
covering his back and chest. His eyes never left her as he spoke.

“You
can have any of the others, but not this one.”

Samuel,
and the man exchanged words, then Samuel reached for Marcelle, grabbing her
arm, jerking her to her feet. She screamed, but he put his hand up, threatening
to slap her, and she went mute.

Veronica
looked up at the man standing in front of her, angered by his nonchalant
attitude. He was still looking down at her, a look of confusion and intrigue on
his face. She frowned, looked at Marcelle, now staring mutely at Samuel who
chuckled. That was enough for Veronica.

She
pushed up off the bench, coming toe-to-toe, but nowhere near eye-to-eye, with
the man in black.

“Tell
him to let her go!” She jammed her hands on her hips, feet spread, trying to
look as intimidating as possible. And hopefully to cover up that her hands were
shaking, and her heart was hammering away in her chest. This whole thing was
heading in a direction she wasn’t prepared for.

The
man in black, the leader, gazed down at her, dark eyes meeting hers, one
eyebrow raised. For a minute, she thought he was going to just slap her and get
it over with. But then he smiled.

“That
is not for you to decide.” He jerked his head in Samuel’s direction. “She will
be taken care of.  But none of this is any of your business. You should
worry more about yourself, and less about anyone else.”

“What
do you want from us?”

His
brows came together. She noticed a scar, a thin white line, that ran through
one brow, from the center outward, nearly to the corner of his eye.

“You’ll
find out soon enough… right now, you need to calm down.”

“Calm
down? Are you serious?”

“I
told you! We’re being sold…” Emily forced her way past Samuel. “I told you,
Veronica. Oh my God, I knew it!” She grabbed the tall man’s arm. “Please. Take
her, let me go. She’s a slut anyway, she sleeps around…”

The
man in black glanced at Emily, and then nodded at Samuel who released Marcelle
temporarily, and took Emily by the arm, pulled her away from the man in black, and
shoved her onto the bench beside Satasha.

“Hey,
leave her alone...” Veronica shoved the man in front of her. He looked back to
her, reached out and grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm roughly. His grip was
like a vice, bones in her wrist grinding together. She bit back a cry of pain.

“You
fight for this girl? She is one of your…friends?” His English was better than Samuel’s,
but still heavily accented. Veronica shook her head.

“She
hasn’t done anything. You’ve kidnapped us…taken us against our will.”

He
raised her arm, pulling her up on her toes. Her breath came short and fast, her
pulse racing. Everyone else was silent, even Marcelle’s whimpering had died
away.

“You’re
coming with me.” The man who held her relaxed his grip just a fraction. She
twisted, pulling her wrist out of his grip, but he must have anticipated her
move; he dropped, stepped forward, his shoulder catching her in the stomach.
The wind went out of her and then she was being lifted off her feet, her head
hanging down the man’s back, his hand clamped around the back of her thigh. She
beat against his back, kicked, but all he did was slap her ass. It stung, but
she got the message.

The
door at the end of the room hissed open again, and he swung around and moved
toward it, with barely enough room to avoid hitting her head on the wall above
the bench. Samuel grabbed Marcelle, pulling her to her feet.

“Leave
her.”

“No.
We have an agreement. She’s…” The man holding her, swung around to face Samuel,
almost hitting her head into the other wall. “The agreement is no more. Release
them.”

“Let
me go, you bastard.” Veronica thumped the man on the back with her fists.
“Leave us alone!”

But
she was looking down at the people in the room from a great height, moving
through the doorway, and her words seemed a little weak in the face of her
being upside down over his shoulder. Samuel, his face a mask of unconcealed
fury, stepped into the narrow hall, ignoring his orders. The door hissed shut
behind him, and the models were left in the little room alone.

Veronica
bounced along, as the man carrying her strode down a narrow corridor. The walls
were no longer blue metal, but something gray, industrial looking. The floor
beneath them was standard metal grates, below that cables and tubes. Steam
hissed and she jumped.

He
carried her easily. She wondered about the vaguely Eastern European accent.
They’d
been kidnapped by the Russian mob?
Was there even such a thing as the
Russian mob? She’d heard of stranger things happening.

“Where
are you taking me?” The ceiling here was low and she couldn’t push against his
back. The blood was rushing to her head, making her ears pound, her head ache.
But the man remained silent.

They
went through another doorway, narrowly missing getting her head smacked against
the overhead frame. Then down another short hall, and up a set of metal steps
that Clanked and swayed under his steps. The man stopped, and she heard the
screech of metal on metal. He ducked and she did too, and they went through a
narrow doorway.

Then
he dropped her on a bed—a bed with a blanket, with springs that squeaked. She
scrambled away from him, trying to get her balance on the narrow cot. The man
stood, hands on hips, looking down at her. He was smiling. She needed to get
off the bed, get her feet under her. This way, he had the advantage. And she
didn’t want that.

“You’re
a fighter. I like that.” His eyes moved over her, but it wasn’t a look of
desire as much as a look of appreciation. “You are exactly what I wanted. A
woman with passion, a beautiful body, curves… a
real
woman. And you have
spirit.”

Reaching
for the strap of her bag, her heart sank. She’d taken it off, back in the other
room. And in that bag was a can of pepper spray. Her heart did a sickening
little stutter step. Not that she couldn’t take him, but right now anything she
could get her hands on would help.

“What
do you want?” She watched him, looking for an opening. He seemed almost
super-human in size, and strength. He’d carried her easily, barely breaking a
sweat.

“I
think I want
you
.”

He
pulled his shirt over his head. The mesh stretched with his movements, and it
clinked softly as it hit the floor. She stared in disbelief at him, trying to
look for something that would help her, a weakness, but she was distracted by
the scar on his torso, upper left, three broad lines that ran from his
collarbone, coming together almost at the center of his chest. They looked for
all the world like the bad tattoo she’d seen on a guy in a bar mimicking the
claw marks of an attacking bear attack. But this was no tattoo. It did look
like an animal attack, though.

She
brought her gaze up to his face. “You can’t have me.”

“I
can have whatever I want.”

With
something between horror and disbelief, she watched as he took a step towards
her, a smile curving his lips.

“Leave
me alone.” Her eyes kept jumping between his face and the door, wondering if
she could make a run for it. Her gaze returned to his face once again. She
needed to keep her focus on his eyes, watching for that telltale flicker that
said he was going to attack. She tensed, waited.

“You
don’t understand, woman. I have no choice.”

He
lunged, low, grabbing for her waist. She swung for his head, but he ducked
under her arm, then came at her, chest against hers, pushing her onto the bed,
pinning one arm beneath her. She tried to kick, but he straddled her hips with
his thighs, and her feet thumped on the bed, knees hitting his back. But she
still had one arm free and she swung hard, punching up with the heel of her
hand toward his face.

But
he easily caught her hand in his, and he was laughing as he swung it to the
side, over the edge of the bed. It hurt, the edge of the bed catching her upper
arm. He pushed harder, and she cried out in anger and pain. He raised up just a
bit, and she planted one foot on the bed, bringing her other leg up between his
legs. Hard. And hit her mark.

He
grunted, let go of her arm, but the smile was still on his face, looking a
little strained. She brought her free arm up, a big round house swing that
caught him alongside the head. The grunt was louder this time, and she thought
she’d hurt him. A little rush of triumph ran through her. Gus would tell her
not to get cocky, but this was different. This was more than just showing up
some guys at the gym.

Pushing
against his chest, she managed to sit up, to get out from under the weight of
his chest and push him back further. He was heavy, but he wasn’t fighting her
anymore, even though he still held her wrist. Maybe she had hurt him. 
With the last of her energy, she swung her legs out from beneath him. She was
losing momentum here, the drugged and heavy feeling from before coming back. Weakness,
from hunger, from whatever they’d given her, was sapping her strength. She was
fading fast.

Breathing
hard, she kept her eye on him, struggling to sit up, move away from him. The
headache was back, throbbing behind her eyes. She closed her eyes, took a deep
breath, and slumped wearily against the wall, waiting for his next move. Yet,
as soon as she relaxed, the man let go of her wrist.  She opened her eyes,
looking at him. He was frowning at her, confused. He looked positively
disappointed.

 “You
are not fighting. Fight…come on, woman…fight me. Isn’t that what you do?” He growled
at her, but she simply shook her head. Maybe giving in would just make this
easier – make it end. “Or will you stop fighting, and listen to what I have to
say?”

“Take
what you want…I’m not going to fight you anymore.” She hated saying that, hated
giving in or giving up.