Dominant Predator by S.A. McAuley

Author:S.A. McAuley
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Erotic Romance Fiction
Publisher: Pride Publishing
Published: 2015-03-26T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

“You recognize Sarai Kersch,” Ahriman opined as we walked into the practice room where she was being held.

I didn’t bother to answer him. I didn’t want to know how long he’d been holding her or what had happened in the years she’d been missing. Those were details I didn’t want to have in my head, available for the president to access at his will. Because if the president asked I would answer. I wanted to be able to tell him honestly that I didn’t know.

Despite the president’s apparent view that Sarai wasn’t coming home, I was going to play this out with the intention of getting her out alive. I couldn’t see any other option or consider that I wouldn’t be able to.

Sarai was the president’s wife, but she had never been involved in the dark deals her husband made for the Revolution. My contact with her had been limited to security detail or the handful of social occasions I was forced to attend for appearances as a Colonel for the Peacemakers. Regardless, I felt as if I knew her because of the president and how he spoke of her being his heart and his conscience. Of a love for her that couldn’t be replaced. I’d never understood it. I had no frame of reference to believe that that type of unselfish love—love without an agenda—was possible. And it was in my power to give that back to the president. To return his wife to him.

I wanted to pretend that protecting her was simply a part of my job. She was a citizen and my job as a soldier was to protect those who didn’t fight from the atrocities of war. I was willing to sacrifice just about anything or anyone—hell, even myself—for the president. But her life meant more than any ordinary citizen’s because it meant something to him.

I studied the restraints. I didn’t know where the release button was—if I had I wouldn’t have been trapped in that chair for as many hours as I had in my year with the PsychHAgs.

One year of physical and psychological torture. Of seeing my blood spilled and flesh torn from my body as they wore me down. Sleep-deprived, starving, at the hands of men and women who fought on the same side that I did. My anger toward them feeding my drive to survive. I’d watched other members of my class being ceremoniously carried out in body bags, or slung across shoulders in disrespect for the ones who had broken way before they should have. We were forced to witness each death, each failure, and taught to learn from their mistakes. From their weakness. With each failure, the number of witnesses had dwindled until I was the only one standing in the practice room when my final classmate went into death with a howling wail that I could recall with perfect clarity.

I’d already been hardened, jaded many years before that, but my year here had nearly stolen the last of my will to live.

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