The Butcher's Bride
The vibrations of the road hummed through the floor, rattling my teeth.
Opposite me sat Vargo.
He was cleaning his fingernails with a small, serrated knife. He had removed his tactical helmet, revealing a pale, hairless scalp and eyes that looked like wet stones. He watched me with a predatory amusement, like a cat that had finally cornered a particularly troublesome mouse.
"You're quiet," Vargo observed, his voice smooth as oil. "Most prisoners scream. Or beg. Or bargain."
"I'm not a prisoner," I said, my voice flat. "I'm the fiancée of your Alpha. I'm coming home."