It has been a week since I was kidnapped. The first three days involved rolling around in the back of a van with a black cloth bag over my head. There were several other captives in with me although nobody dared talk much above a pained whimper. The stench of sweat and cigarettes warned us that at least one of the thugs was sitting in the back with us. Whilst we travelled, the buzz of the electric cattle prod against one wailing girl told me to bide my time. Struggling would not get me anything but injuries. Instead I tried to decipher the chatter of the drivers whenever my tied up body rolled close enough to listen. "Shame about the redhead from last month. I'd hoped she was left behind so I could have a go." "Get yourself in the Cage then, win one for yourself," a man with a throaty rasp answered. "Nah, I'm happy with sloppy seconds if I don't have to risk getting my throat ripped out," as a dirty, sleazy laugh followed. A wave of nausea hit me. “What do you think they do with

An hour later, standing around with the five other surviving fighters from this month’s Showcase we make a grisly scene. Our cuts, wounds, black eyes and bleeding are still obvious for a few more hours before the shifter healing completes. I notice Rufus, a man I sparred with, did not make it through his round. A pity. Yet here I am, clad in a black, soft robe with a thick red trim, still alive. Instead Denton, a black-bearded criminal gives me a silent throat slitting gesture and a smirk. He had also made it to eleven wins tonight, under the self-assigned name of Denton the Destroyer. His rival in sin, Xavier, a tattooed, wiry shifter whose sadistic cunning enhanced his physical strength had also made it to eight wins. We grimly nodded at each other, the other three had survived their first ever Cage. Rufus, Maxwell, and Brent replaced by another three identically rough looking men. Faceless entities for now. However while these new victors all licked their lips and muttered

My last remaining adrenalin must have exhausted itself as somehow, I fell asleep. I even dreamed. They were not nightmares of being kidnapped but instead peaceful dreams of ascending, like reaching the top of a wooded hill and basking in the nature around me. Very soothing and calming. Perhaps my brain is trying to soothe my fear-soaked body into believing I will be okay. However the instant Ivan rolled over in the bed my eyes shot open, tense, and ready, staring up at the mattress, fists clenched and ready. I am not being naïve enough to assume that just because he didn’t harm me last night he won’t pounce in the morning. Instead I hear manly stretching, grunting noises then a rustle as a face quietly peers over the bed to see where I am. Surrounded by a dozen towels in a strange little den, just my face peering out and a mass of blonde hair. I am fully aware I look ridiculous. For once his face changes, a strange little half-smile forms and he mutters, “you look like a mouse,”

After bathing Martha escorted me back. Despite her niceness to me she was still a part of this awful system, how could be a good person and exist in here? My damp blonde hair was up high in a large bun. As soon as I got back to the room I locked the door, took off the hideous silken gown. Grabbing the grey hooded top from last night, a peculiar apple scent hit me, sending a warm feeling down my body and I hugged it closer to me. This must be what Martha meant about a shifter's scent. Is that why Martha made me have such a potent soak? Well right now I reeked of oranges and lime so hopefully Ivan will be fooled into thinking that is my particular smell. Why I clasped the grey hooded top to my chest like a comforter I have no idea. My random nest of towels has been cleaned away, the room is stark and basic. I frantically searched through his large mahogany drawers for something else to cover my naked body. Martha might think Ivan is better than the others but nobody likes finding s

It’s been three days since he grabbed me, and I haven’t said a single word to him. I go to the bathhouse, he goes to his training, sparring, whatever it is he does all day. I won’t be forced into anything I don’t want to do. I’d rather die. I’d tell him that too if we were talking but he appears to be waiting for me to cave. Instead I glower at him and read the same limited book again. More fool him. He ambles about coolly, my eyes still seeking glimpses of his muscular body as he wakes and retires each day. Each morning I hear him turn over in the bed, his face peering over from the high mattress, wondering if perhaps I was going to give up being frosty. Not a chance. Today he slammed the door as he left, clearly frustrated with me. Good. Provided with the modest clothes, Martha told me Vincent was away on business so there was no risk to us while I was in the room. Meaning Ivan could stay the hell away from me. Martha still came for me every morning though since she witnessed