J. Tyler: Savage Awakening

Aric Savage gripped the chains as the silver-barbed lash tore into his back with unmerciful precision. Fire licked over the flayed skin, soaked deep to burn his guts, steal his breath.

Still, he found the strength to snarl his rage between strokes, his wolf clawing desperately to be free. To rip Orson Chappell’s minions to shreds, starting with the bastard currently wielding the whip and then moving on to Beryl, his malicious bitch of a stepsister. The pair of them were an open sore on the world’s ass. He’d take great pleasure in tearing out their throats, but not before making them scream as they’d done to him. And then he’d track down the big boss himself. Drag him from under the rock where he was hiding and butcher him, too.

Slowly. Painfully, so that the fucker squealed like a piglet as Aric’s wolf devoured him alive.

Here, Piggy, Piggy, let me in!

Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!

No problem, asshole. I’ll just incinerate your door, come right in, and watch you piss your pants as I unleash my beast—

Another blow fell, shattering the inner dialogue as liquid agony scored him from shoulder to hip.

“Ahhh! Fuck… fuck this… b-bastards…”

With every stroke, it became harder to retain his hold on sanity. Beryl’s efforts were beginning to pay off. After weeks of this hellish trip into Psycholand, the unbelievable pain, he was close to the breaking point.

He’d never dreamed there were so many methods of brutal torture. Or that he’d be forced to sample every fuckin’ one of them.

He wasn’t aware the whipping had stopped until a hand cupped his chin and thrust his head up. Beryl’s flat, soulless eyes bored into his, searching for weakness, for the knowledge that stepbrother dearest was finally a broken husk. A gibbering pile of shit.

“Sorry to disappoint, bitch,” he whispered, his throat raw and aching. “I’m still in here.” His mind might not be gone just yet, but screaming had stripped his voice during a session with Beryl’s handy silver knife. If he should get out of here, he might never recover, in more ways than one.

“Good. I’d be terribly put out if you gave up too quickly.” One corner of her mouth curved up. “As it is, you amuse me. So tenacious, my fierce brother.”

Her touch made his skin crawl, but he didn’t have the strength to jerk his chin out of her grasp. Even if she did set him free, he had nothing left. Despite his longing for vengeance, he didn’t have the strength to let loose his raging wolf, let alone summon his gifts of fire or telekinesis. Pathetic.

“I’m surprised Chappell lets you play with his test subjects,” he taunted.

A flash of something that might’ve been unease interrupted the deadness in her eyes, then was gone. “That isn’t your concern.”

He huffed a laugh that was more like a strangled rasp. “He doesn’t know.” This kept getting better.

“What?” There. Again the flicker of alarm.

Despite the pain assailing his battered body, he sneered. “Chappell doesn’t know what you’re doing to me down here, screwing with one of his lab rats. Wonder what he’d do to his pet witch if he found out?”

Flicking a lock of long auburn hair that was a shade darker than his own over her shoulder, she affected a look of complete disinterest. “He has more important concerns than one shifter.”

“I’ll just bet.”

“Whether you’re here or in the lab doesn’t make a difference to you, anyway.” Giving his face a hard squeeze, she shoved, snapping his head to the side. “You’ll be just as dead when I’m done with you.”

He didn’t bother to answer. He knew his chances of escaping from either place dimmed with each day. Spinning on her heel, she turned and left, the gloom beyond his small patch of light swallowing her form and the click of her boots until he was once again alone with his grim thoughts.

How was Beryl involved in all of this? And why the special torture reserved for the older stepbrother she’d barely bothered to know, and vice versa? Why the all-consuming hatred?

True, she’d always been a self-absorbed bitch. From the day Aric’s mother had remarried and his stepdaddy had brought that strange, sullen teenaged nightmare home to play house, Aric had done his best to steer clear of her. Not always successfully, either. Joining the Navy SEALs, getting out of that pressure cooker of a house, had been a blessing.

Right up until his unit had been attacked by rogue wolf shifters in the mountains of Afghanistan and his world had been completely fucked. Forever.

If he was honest, he would have to admit that he hadn’t been happy since he’d lost his humanity. He loved his brothers on the Alpha Pack team, but when that last op had gone south, they’d given him up fast enough, hadn’t they? Jax gave me up. To save his mate. When the chips were down, Aric was alone. As always. No one had come for him, and no one would. His throat tightened with emotion, burned with the tears he would never allow to fall. Maybe he was better off dead.

But he couldn’t bring himself to give up. No, he wanted to live long enough to slaughter every single person responsible for his being in this hellhole, suffering this endless goddamned agony.

General George Patton had it right. He was going to strut through the valley of the shadow of death—and he’d be the meanest motherfucker there. Make them all pay.

Then, and only then, would he willingly let the Reaper take him.

Rowan Chase jerked the wheel in a hard left, brought the car skidding to a stop in a filthy, garbage-strewn alley between two run-down buildings, killed the ignition, and was out before her rookie partner, Daniel Albright, even got his seat belt unbuckled.

One glance at the situation told her things had already gone FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition.

A crowd of about twenty Hispanic men of varying ages surrounded two guys rolling on the ground, the edgy group shouting obscenities, egging the fight on. Quickly, her brain assessed the struggling pair, taking in the information rapid-fire. One stocky male, six feet, about two hundred twenty pounds. The smaller one younger, slender, five-seven, about one sixty. She recognized him as Emilio Herrera. Both wore the East Side Lobos’ colors. Family fight. Over what? Drugs, a girl, or some imagined slur? Who knew?

Sunlight glinted off a sliver of metal between the combatants, and blood blossomed on the smaller guy’s shirt. Knife. Shit. Rowan unclipped her holster as she jogged toward them, adrenaline rushing through her veins.

“LAPD!” she shouted, her pistol clearing leather. “Break it the fuck up!”

“Get back! Give us some room!” Danny bellowed.

Danny was green but he was a good officer. She trusted him to control the agitated crowd while she dealt with the fight—and trust was imperative. A second unit was on the way, but that didn’t mean it would arrive in time to prevent disaster.

The pair were oblivious at first, the younger man completely focused on defending himself against his assailant. The stocky man was clearly the aggressor, his rage palpable. He was the one she needed to reach.

“I said break it up! Now!”

Switchblade in his meaty fist, straddling the younger man, the stocky one turned his head to glance at her, a snarl on his face. She sucked in a breath, recognizing him. Luis Garcia. She should’ve known. He was a dangerous bastard with a long rap sheet full of violence. Worse, he was unpredictable, his mind fried from a lifetime of drug abuse.