Slave 2513a (manxman) SAMPLE

Chapter 1: Little Spitfire

^ Alexander ^

Alexander

The blue of the sky was choked out by clouds. The sun hidden away, it's light unable to pass through the thick grey barrier. Everything around me seemed duller, and depressing. As if my mood wasn't bitter enough. You'll find him eventually. Don't worry about it. Yeah, easy for you to say Tom, you already found your mate.

I shuffled down the street, hands buried in my pockets and head down. I wasn't sure how long I had been walking, or where the hell I even was. I just needed to get away.

Tom and Zane, my best friends, were driving me up the walls lately. I understand that they're just trying to be supportive, really, I do. But things are getting out of hand. Last week Zane had let himself into my house when I had been in the shower, I nearly had a heartattack when I found the little shit sprawled out on my couch.

I just needed to get away from them for a while, clear my head.

A low rumble of thunder had me looking up at the sky. Rain started to pour, and it felt like I had stepping into the shower with my clothes on. I jogged over to the nearest building which appeared to be an old warehouse and let myself in, my nose twitching as it was assaulted by the scent of rogues. Great, just what I needed. Rogues were a pain in the ass. Quick to anger, violent, and idiotic to boot didn't exactly make them pleasant customers.

Luckly, only a few of the werewolves here were actually rogues. There were around fourty people here, some sitting at the bar, others sitting at the tables dotted around the room. They all seemed to be sitting around waiting for something, and that's when I noticed the stage.

I took a deep breath and noticed another scent, drowned out by the stench of other werewolves. Human.

A door at the back of the stage was stoved open, and two rogues emerged, dragging along a young man. I grimaced in disgust, having finally figured out what this place was. It was one of the warehouses where human's were kept, and later sold as a slave.

I was ready to turn and leave, when I felt a rumble in my chest. Thallow was growling lowly, not in anger, but almost possessively. The hell? "Don't leave." He ordered. "Why?" He didn't answer. Well, that's helpful, thanks again Thallow. I stood near the back of the room, and waited. Hoping whatever had gotten Thallow so worked up would make itself present.

"Sold!" The werewolf's booming voice echoed through the room, and the kid was dragged off stage and handed off to his new owner.

I turned away, watching as the two werewolves dissapeared into the back room again. As the seconds ticked by I could feel an uncomfortable itch beneath my skin. I had a feeling that I should do something, but I didn't know what. Probably call someone to shut this damn place down. Sadly, these warehouses are legal, and anyone I could call would do nothing to stop them.

One after another, young boys were hauled out of the back room and sold off.

I was getting sick of watching this play out, and was just about to leave, when another young man was lead onto the stage. When the light hit him, he flinched, stumbling over his feet as he reached up to block the light with a hand.

The werewolves guided him into the center of the stage, disappearing from his side. I found I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He lowered his hands, blinking a few times. A small scowl twisting his pouty pink lips. The boy looked out at the audience and glared, his dark brown eyes narrowed down into a sharp gaze.

He had short, greasy black hair. And a dried trail of blood down his chin. A low growl rumbled in my chest against my will, my eyebrows furrowing. I was confused, what the hell was going on here? And then the scent hit me. It was very faint, lost in an ocean of other smells. But I caught it and held on tight. Blueberries and pine. Sweet and fragrant.

Mate.

He was so unlike the other slaves that they brought out. They had kept their heads down low, cowering fearfully. A few even cried. But not him. He stood there with fire in his eyes, the very definition of defiant. My mate rolled his eyes, and spoke, "2513a. Nighteen years, with a rebellious streak. Who would like the chance to tame this little spitfire?"

He said it in a bored tone, and looked as much. His voice was masculine, a small rough edge to it. And sweet.

My body was frozen, feet feeling like they were made of lead as I stared on at my rebellious little mate. His expression was cracking, a look flickered across his face and softened his glare. Fear. Then I noticed the two werewolves from before were at his side, forcing him onto his knees. His pained gasp seemed to echo in the dead silent room.

What the hell are they doing?! His shirt was tore clean off his body, revealing his chest. He was thin, far too thin to count as healthy. And bruises, painting him in deep blues and purples. Some shades of green and yellow. Bastards. Something else caught my eye, and caused me to bolt into action.

One of the werewolves, a whip in hand. I zig-zagged my way through the crowd. I was halfway there when someone gripped my shoulder, forcing me to turn around. The culprit was a rogue, a snarl twisting his lips. "You're not allowed to be here unless-" my fist connected with his jaw and sent him reeling into the floor.

Told you those rogues were nothing but trouble. When I turned back I saw my mate biting his lip as the whip came down. How was I suppose to stop this. The whip came down again with another sickening crack, and my mate cried out.

"Ten thousand! I bid ten thousand!"

The announcer's eyes were wide as he gawked at me like I had grown another head. "You want to buy him," the werewolf pointed to my mate, "for ten thousand dollars?"

"Yes." He was staring me down, probably trying to figure out if I was joking. When he finally saw I was serious, he shrugged his shoulders. "Going once, going twice, sold." I sighed in relief, then turned back to my mate. His body went limp, and he fell forward, hitting the stage with a soft thud.

I went to go help my mate, only to get dragged aside to fill out this paper and pay. Their idea of paperwork was a journal, on the left column was a list of the slave numbers, and to the right you mark down the price sold, date and the name of the buyer.

I quickly filled it out and wrote the man a check. I turned back to the stage to go get my mate and get us the hell out of him, only to freeze in my tracks. One of the trainers was standing there, my unconscious mate in his arms. My eyes narrowed and I fought back a growl when I recognized him. He was the one who had used the whip.

I took the young man from him carefully as to not injure him further, and cradled him close. A shimmer of silver caught my eye, "Are those handcuffs?" The guy nodded, handing me a key. "I wouldn't suggest taking them off if I were you, last guy to do that got stabbed in the eye." If only he had stabbed you. I found myself wanting to say, but bit back my tongue.

I made my way out of the building, clutching the key in my hand and carrying my mate close. Once we were outside, I leaned against the side of the building, beneath an overhang where we were safe from the rain. I slid into a sitting position, cradling the boy in my lap. Now I could shove the key into my jeans pocket easily without worry about dropping him.

The air held a chill. I stripped off my coat, which had luckly dried, and wrapped my mate in it. I pulled out my phone and called for a taxi, which arrived ten minutes later. I got into the back, and told the driver my address.