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CHAPTER 1
The muzzle was a new addition to Thomas's restraints. The shaped metal fitted over his mouth and jaw with only one small hole in its smooth surface to ensure he could breathe and to let them plug in the tube for the feeding solution. Apparently solid food was a privilege he no longer deserved. They fed him a liquid that looked like pond water and tasted little better. The muzzle, held onto his head by straps, was just a little too tight. It wasn't particularly painful compared to previous punishments, but it was a low-grade discomfort he couldn't escape.
His arms were cuffed behind him since he'd attacked that guard. Thomas had broken three of the guy's fingers and clawed open his wrist. He wished he could have done the same to the other hand, so the man would be incapable of activating a shock collar ever again. Even the constant ache in his shoulders and cramp in his arms couldn't make him regret his actions.
He shifted position in his small cell. Shackles around his ankles limited the movement of his legs. He longed to run, to really move, to work out his limbs, but he knew that was unlikely to ever happen again. Freedom of movement was another privilege his disobedience had cost him.
Thomas could hear the movements of other werewolves shifting in their own cells, but no talking. Werewolves weren't encouraged to talk unless asked a direct question and most weren't as prone to acts of pointless rebellion as Thomas. He wasn't sure how many were in this part of the facility. Perhaps two dozen. He couldn't see into the other cells, just a patch of corridor beyond the transparent door, which allowed prospective buyers to observe their potential purchases from a point of safety. The door wasn't glass but something stronger, a material that even werewolf strength couldn't break. Thomas had tried often enough.
He heard a door opening. It wasn't time for feeding or patrol. It was unlikely to be a random inspection and guards generally waited until night to sample the merchandise — not that they tried with Thomas. Even the densest guards preferred to rape a werewolf who wasn't likely to claw their eyes out for the attempt.
The new arrival had to be a potential buyer.
Sure enough, he heard the familiar voice of one of the tenders explaining the merits of this werewolf or that, pointing out features to the prospective customer. This one was strong, useful for practical work; that one was attractive, the perfect physique for impressing at functions; this one was experienced in personal care, a skilled masseuse, and ideal for a personal pet. The customer just made non-committal noises in response to the sales pitch as they moved along the corridor.
The woman came into view through the door to Thomas's cell. She looked young to be making a purchase, barely old enough for it to be legal. She was probably even younger than Thomas. Her clothes weren't the well-tailored style worn by rich kids whose parents decided their darlings needed a new pet. She wore a faded T-shirt and jeans, not in an expensively artistic way, but in a way caused by considerable wear. She was black, a little chubby, with a mess of dark curls against her head. She wasn't the sort of person who normally came to buy a werewolf.
Maybe she was buying for a business. Some companies bought werewolves rather than hire humans, especially for dangerous or demanding physical work. Thomas didn't know much about that sort of work; companies didn't care about replacing werewolves frequently to demonstrate their wealth, and the survival rate meant that few came back to the facility after being sold. Thomas wasn't sure whether being worked to death in a mine would be preferable to being paraded around as a personal pet.
However, the woman didn't fit the profile for corporate buyers either. She didn't have the suit or the calculating gaze. She stopped on the other side of the door, looking at Thomas with the same curiosity with which he was looking at her.
"Is he infectious? I thought the infectious ones weren't for general sale."
Only a small percentage of werewolves were capable of turning humans through the bite. Thomas had seen what was done to those who could pass on the infection and was glad he wasn't part of that group.
"No, it's not infectious, but that hasn't stopped it from trying to bite people," the tender said. He tried to urge the woman back to the cell before, pointing out the excellent physique of that werewolf. The woman just stood there, staring at Thomas. He hoped his pride was visible despite the muzzle blocking half his face.
"Are these the only ones?" the woman asked. She glanced further along the corridor.
The tender answered, "In this age group, yes, but there might be some at the lower end of the next category that would suit you."
"Could I ... Is there an opportunity for talking to one of them alone? Just to see how they respond." She wasn't looking at the tender as she spoke. From the way her eyes darted around, she was probably lying. Thomas wondered if she planned on doing some merchandise sampling of her own.
"We can't allow that for security, I'm afraid, but all our werewolves receive extensive training. If you want a particularly docile werewolf ..." The tender tried to urge the woman away, talking about how one of the others was a real prize, always kept for a long time by owners and only just returned to the facility for resale. The woman didn't seem interested.
"Which one's spent the most time in the facility?" she asked. Thomas knew the answer to that even before the tender pointed to him. It was a strange question. Most owners wanted the werewolves who'd spent the least time here, who practiced perfect obedience to avoid the ever-present threat of retraining.
"I'll buy this one," the woman declared.
"Ma'am," the tender said, "we really wouldn't recommend this one for a first-time buyer. It would require a lot of discipline, a great deal of training to rid it of its violent impulses."
"I'll handle it. I'll take this one."
"If you want the experience of training a werewolf, there are others I could suggest that would be more suitable."
The woman dragged her eyes away from Thomas to look at the tender. Thomas wondered what she was after. Why pick the most problematic of werewolves? The only answers that occurred to him did not bode well for his future. The only owners he'd experienced who liked rebellion were the sort who relished an excuse to inflict pain. Like Amelia.
"You've made a sale," the woman said. "Process it."
"I need you to understand that you will be legally responsible for this werewolf. If it harms you or anyone else, or damages any property, you will be the one liable."
"Yes. I know that. I've read the pamphlets. I've taken the damn online assessment. Now will you stop patronising me and do your job?"
The tender looked like he might argue, but he simply forced a smile and said, "Very well. In that case, Miss Baker, if you'll come to my office, we can sort out the paperwork."
He led the woman off to sign all the bits of paper that would declare Thomas to be the property of someone new. Thomas leaned back against the wall of his cell, hands pressed awkwardly behind him. He wondered what his new owner would be like. Would she prefer whips or the collar? Probably the collar, since she didn't look like someone with a great deal of physical strength. Or she might come up with more imaginative punishments. Human creativity never failed to astonish him as they invented new ways to inflict pain.
* * *
Being delivered to a new owner was a serious undertaking. The process involved three tenders securing Thomas's restraints while another stood nearby with his thumb ready on the controls for the shock collar. They tested the shackles and cuffs, linking them all together with a length of chain that gave almost no freedom of movement. He could only walk in small, shuffling steps. They attached other chains to the cuffs and collar to enable them to lead him without getting too close. Even restrained as he was, they were nervous. Thomas noted with a sense of pride that they avoided going near his hands except when they absolutely had to, even though his fingers ended in perfectly human nails right now, instead of the claws he could produce.
They led him from his tiny cell, past the many others where werewolves huddled, considerably less restrained than he had been. Thomas was seriously hampered by all of the chains, but that didn't stop the tenders from trying to hurry him along.
Thomas gave a low growl in the back of his throat. The muzzle did nothing to muffle the sound and one of the tenders paled.
Pain burst around Thomas's neck. He stumbled, nearly falling, as the electricity shocked through him. His growl turned into a cry that he failed to keep in. Even when the shocks stopped, the memory of the pain lingered like an echo inside his skin. Thomas gasped behind the muzzle, simply trying to breathe until the hurt was gone.
"Get moving!" one of the tenders snapped, tugging at the chains again.
Thomas hobbled along, out through the security checkpoint, to a van with an open door at the back. With the shackles on, Thomas couldn't step up, so he had to turn around and sit on the floor before shuffling inside on his rear. In that moment of turning, he caught sight of a face at one of the upstairs windows of the facility. A pair of eyes met his and Thomas refused to look away. David Mattherson glared down at him, until an electric prod in the ribs forced Thomas further inside the van.
They secured him to the floor in a kneeling position, locking the chains to rings to hold him in place. When they were finished, his range of movement was so restricted he couldn't even shift from kneeling to sitting. All he could do was glare up at his captors. Two of the tenders sat with him, one holding the collar controls, while the others went to the front.
The van started moving with a lurch and Thomas felt another jolt of pain from his collar. He glared at the man who held the controls. The human smirked at him.
"My finger slipped," he said. Thomas wondered how many other slips there would be over the course of the journey.
Would his new owner be the sort to enjoy this petty maliciousness? Would she hurt for the sake of it or restrict herself to punishments? Thomas suspected the former, since she'd deliberately chosen a difficult slave. But the woman was inexperienced. The tender at the facility had talked about a first slave. Thomas could use that. He could start out with a few token shows of rebellion and face whatever punishments were dealt and then become more obedient until the human thought her training was working and let down her guard.
It would take time, but Thomas had time. He needed to figure out where his tracker was and remove it before he could even think about running away. He knew from experience that attempting to run was futile while David Mattherson could locate him in an instant.
He spent the uncomfortable drive thinking it all over. He needed to be careful until he saw how this woman punished. If he spent all his time physically restrained, searching for the tracker would be impossible.
When the van finally parked, Thomas's legs were cramping. The tenders opened the back doors and worked to release Thomas's chains from the vehicle.
Thomas stumbled out on stiff legs that tingled with pain as his blood flow resumed. As he rounded the vehicle, he got his first glimpse of his new home.
It was surprisingly small — a little semi-detached house that stood amid a patch of untended garden in a suburban street. This hardly seemed a fitting home for someone who could afford a werewolf, but his new owner stood in the doorway of the house, signing the final paperwork. The tenders gave Thomas a shove and a shock to get him moving. He shuffled in through the front door and stood in a narrow hallway while his new owner took her receipt of purchase and signed that the werewolf had been delivered as promised.
"He's all yours now," the tender said, handing over the controls for the shock collar and looking relieved. He and the others hurried back to the van.
The woman shut the door and turned to Thomas. She looked nervous and definitely young to be an owner. In the narrow hallway, it was easy to smell the sweat of fear, the scent of it coming off her in waves. She looked Thomas up and down, taking in the chains and restraints. She swallowed visibly and then took a step closer to Thomas.
"I'm going to take this thing off now," she said. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't bite me."
She fumbled a little with the buckles for the muzzle. Thomas waited motionless while she worked. It was even easier now to smell the fear. Why the hell would she buy a slave she was afraid of?
The muzzle came free and Thomas could move his jaw again. The woman tossed it aside and gave Thomas a smile.
"That's better, huh?" she said. She looked as though she expected Thomas to thank her, to offer praise for an act of decency so tiny that it was all but insignificant. If she thought Thomas was going to be grateful for the removal of restraints that had been put on him by humans in the first place, she had a lot to learn.
On impulse, Thomas snapped his teeth towards her arm, just to see how she'd react. He was nowhere near making contact, but she still leapt backwards, nearly falling over her own feet. He was surprised she didn't wet herself. Thomas smirked.
"Laugh it up, big guy," the human muttered. "Do you want the chains off or not?"
"Yes," Thomas said. Technically, he was answering a direct question, which was allowed. His tone probably wasn't. He expected the human to press down on the button for the shock collar. She didn't.
"Then no biting, no clawing, no maiming. Got it?"
Thomas rolled his eyes. The human seemed to take that as a yes because she approached Thomas again, walking behind him and testing keys in the locks of the cuffs. The tenders must have given her several keys because she seemed to be taking her time over it.
"Do you have a name?" the human asked. "There wasn't anything on your paperwork."
The question caught Thomas by surprise. He was used to being called all sorts of things by the humans who purchased him. "Wolf" was the most common, or "Slave", or "Boy". One owner had liked to call him "Animal" while she ordered him to perform degrading tasks. None of them had ever asked for his name. None since David had even acknowledged he might have one.
"If you don't have a name, I could always make something up for you. You could be Butch. You look like a Butch." She seemed to be serious. Thomas wondered if he wanted to have his name sullied by a human's tongue, but decided he could cope with that, just for the novelty of being addressed by his own name for once, the name his mother had given him.
"Thomas. My name's Thomas."
"Nice to meet you, Thomas. I'm Crystal, or Chris."
The cuffs finally came loose, the chains clattering to the floor. Crystal took a hurried step back. All Thomas did though was rub his sore wrists. He rolled his aching shoulders to get some life back into them. It had been days since he'd been able to move his arms like this and he found he was a little grateful to be able to do so now, though he hated himself for that treacherous feeling.
Crystal dropped to her knees and started trying keys in the shackles around Thomas's ankles. They seemed less trouble than the cuffs. Soon Thomas stepped out of the mess of chains. Crystal kicked the restraints to one side. She offered a small, nervous smile.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"Yes," Thomas said. He should call Crystal "ma'am" or "master". Every other human who'd thought they owned him had punished him for such a lack. Crystal just gave another nervous smile.
"Follow me," she said. Thomas followed her into a small kitchen. A little, battered table was squeezed into a space between counters and appliances. Crystal reached into a cupboard and pulled out a saucepan. Another one yielded a can of soup.
"You any good at cooking?" Crystal asked.
"No," Thomas said. He thought about another kitchen, years ago. He'd used an entire packet of laxatives. Amelia hadn't let him near the kitchen after that.
"Shame," Crystal said. She poured the contents of the can into the saucepan and started heating it up. The liquid looked unpleasantly like the nutrient solution Thomas had been fed through the muzzle. He wanted real food, something solid.
A bowl of fruit stood on the counter, next to the microwave. There wasn't much in it, but it was real, fresh fruit. Thomas couldn't remember the last time he'd had fruit. He watched Crystal stirring the soup and walked across the kitchen to the fruit bowl. He picked up an apple and bit into it. Sweet juice filled his mouth, the tender flesh yielding deliciously against his teeth. Thomas wanted to close his eyes and savour the taste forever because he wasn't sure he would ever experience it again.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Wolf Unleashed"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Jessica Meats.
Excerpted by permission of Guardbridge Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
