100 Savage Roasts Novels & Stories

Juliet was wrong, there was one more emotion even rogues were capable of feeling, and it was fear. The man with dirty-blonde hair—the lankiest of the rogues, took a hesitant step back, followed by another, before bolting off. But the two others remained, their claws extended, waiting. I would have missed the movement if I'd blinked. The black-furred wolf lurched at them, taking one down and in that same motion he tore into the rogue's neck, ripping out a huge chunk of flesh. A wounded snarl escaped the rogue as he struggled desperately to free himself, and failed.

Peaceful. Vespera Hale walked along the mahogany shelves, trailing her fingers over the spines of the books. Philosophy. Strategy. History. She stopped. On a shelf at eye level, nestled between The Art of War and a first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo, was a book she didn't recognize. It had no dust jacket. The binding was matte black, textured like volcanic rock. The lettering on the spine was silver, sharp and angular. SAVAGE REBORN.

My eyes burned, and I couldn't see anyone sitting in front. “One of the finest specimens from our recent pillage. Virgin. 21 years old. Ripe as a strawberry. Perfect curves. And look at this silver hair, so rare.” He pointed at my hair. “Legend says they bring good luck. The bidding starts at ten thousand dollars.” Laughter and jeering followed. I could feel hundreds of gazes at me. My hands grabbed the sides of my gown and tried to push it down. “Twenty thousand,” a heavy voice came.