Chapter One

 

Once, I was a normal woman doing normal things. You know. Go to work at a supermarket. Deal with shit from customers who think they know better than you when they know nothing. Sometimes masturbate in the bathroom when I'm bored out of my mind, using the bullet vibrator that's tucked away in my handbag. Occasionally resist snide glances and attempted gropes from the upper management, though get secretly pleased and flattered at the attention; and try to pretend I like my job. At times, it's a welcome distraction from home, when I've become recently single and live in a property I can barely make the rent on each month.

 

Them's the breaks, right? I have a love-hate relationship with my name, Bronnen McLaughlin. It's been carried through my family for generations, since the whole potato famine thing. The name suits me better as an adult than as a kid, so at twenty-four years of age, I don't get as many eyebrow raises as before.

 

On this perfectly normal day, when I'm walking back home through the park, pretty and green and full of dog walkers – I pass a few shifters, distinguishable by their wacky eye colors, eccentric clothing and dangling pendants from their necks which helps humans to identify their type – and I notice one of them pause and give me a really long stare.

 

Long enough to make me uncomfortable.

 

We've only just really tried integrating shifters into our society, but there has been problems cropping up around the place. Stories of women going missing. Fingers pointing towards shifters and their sometimes alien ways. It certainly conjures up a lot of hate from extremist groups, who think we should kick the shifters out and seal our borders to them. Though I'm willing to dismiss them as rumors, I can't help but feel nervous whenever one takes longer than they should to stare at me. I have some rather illicit fantasies about them, ones I'm ashamed to admit to listening ears – a fantasy I'm sure would turn out to be vastly different in reality. But the point of a fantasy is a safe zone to imagine the worst of our desires, right?

 

Certain features for the shifters in women stand out, I suppose. Striking ones, like my red hair, and my ridiculously pale skin, when it's not erupting out in freckles. Seriously, those things explode on my face when spring starts, and persist throughout the summer like open sores.

Once I got far enough from the shifter, whose pendant I didn't examine closer enough to determine their animal, I let them slide out of mind, mind drifting to the meal I have in the fridge, ready to be microwaved, because I usually can't be bothered to cook once I come back and crash from a long day at work. I walk around everywhere since I sold my car to save on bills, but I do miss having the ability to just drive around at will.

It's when I'm about a block away from my apartment that the shit hits the fan.

Suddenly, a car pulls up on the road beside where I'm walking. Unfortunately, the shortcut I've taken to reach my apartment faster means that I have no one to watch as two men and a shifter leap out, seize me and clamp a hand over my mouth, and bundle me into the back seat. My former defence training goes out the window, before I struggle. I kick, squirm and attempt to scream like a banshee, but one of them switches their hand with a cloth, with the distinctive smell of chloroform on it.

It doesn't work fast. I continue writhing, tears springing to my eyes, terror pounding my heart, as blackness begins to ink at the corners of my vision, and I see a dot appear in the middle, before it expands out and sucks me into nothingness.

 

When I woke up, it took me several moments to adjust to my new surroundings. I found myself locked in a wooden cage with a crude padlock holding the door together. There's straw bedding underneath me, and a fucking water spout like the ones hamsters and rabbits drink in their cages, and a metal bowl of dried fruit.

Side by side to me are other women in similar situations, and when I get over my panic and indignation enough to examine them better, I see that all of them are astonishingly beautiful or stand out in their respective physiques.

 

There's a platinum blonde with a curvy figure, and broad shoulders. A dark haired, light skinned woman who looks as if she has Irish blood in her. An Asian with blue eyes. A heterochromia woman, one green, one brown. A dark skinned woman with blonde, puffy hair. So many types.

 

Realization and horror hits me when I see to the far left of us, a line of people. No. Shifters. There's a line of fucking shifters waiting behind a roped off entrance.

My God. We're being auctioned.

 

Desperately, I look around for any signs that I can recognize. Streets. Roads. What I do see instead is a rather lovely view of some mountains, though I don't exactly recognize said mountains, and a lot of trees and bushes. There's no signs of civilization, other than a dirt track road that trails on the other side of our cages, opposite the line of shifters.

 

Maybe those extremist groups had it right, after all. Shifters are stealing human women. And selling them off like we're back in the slave era.

 

Several of the women try to strike up nervous conversation, but I keep my mouth clamped shut, testing the strength of the cage I'm in. I've never missed a day of work yet, and I'm not happy at the prospect of getting fired – even if I might have a valid reason to not turn up. It's a shame I don't have my phone on me, since they snatched my handbag away, with all my identity and cards stuffed in it.

 

I give up on the cage, and simply sit, resigned. Part of me radiates disgust at the idea that I could find a situation like this arousing, but my cotton panties are ever so slightly damp. Possibly because of the shadow of danger, because I can't think why else I'm reacting like that.

 

Anyway, I'm trapped. Not quite defenceless, given my training. But I'm trapped, here to be ogled at by male shifters, all who may be lusting after my body, my delicate flesh, my crimson hair.

 

Some time later, though I'm not sure how long, the rope barrier is removed, and the shifters, about fifty of them to look at thirty women, now peer at us in our cages in interest – and a little lust.

 

I shudder. There's nothing really to wrap myself up here – I'm in my work clothes still, and whilst it was sunny back in North Carolina, it's chilly here. I don't recognize the mountains at all. I certainly don't feel secure in my position, and I'm genuinely scared right now that I'm going to turn into a sex slave and be sold off.

 

Before this, I've never even spoken to a shifter. I just know they're strange types with their own cultures and animals that they turn into, and they mostly prefer spots outside of human influence. Due to our nature to expand and colonize everything, like we did when we rushed into the new lands of the Americas and Australia, we encountered the shifters there. They were not happy at our invasion. The reason why they lost the wars was because there simply wasn't enough of them to deal with the massive influx of humans and their tech.

 

Now, it seems, they're getting back at us in other ways instead.

 

I scowl as The first of the shifters walks past me. I see a bear pendant on his chest, and he looks as shaggy as I would expect a bear shifter to be – broad chested, face full of fuzz and mean, glinting brown eyes. He crouches before me for a moment, before passing by, then pausing at the dark skinned woman with the blonde hair. He nods to himself and scribbles in a notepad – now I notice all of them have notepads.

 

Jesus, they're listing the ones they want to bid on, of course.

 

I catch other shifters as well. Panther, tiger, snow leopard, lion – a lot of feline species. I also catch the most popular shifter group, wolves – and polar bear.

 

Then there's one I don't recognize. I examine the pendant, but it's of some winged lion bird thing. Mythical shifters.

 

I've heard about those. Mythical shifters were supposed to be the rarest, because their forms were based on imagination, rather than living creatures.

Not that critically reflecting on this matter helps with my current standing of being a prisoner.

 

I scowl as the last of the shifters made their way through, before paling when I two of them sporting mythical creature pendants as well.

 

Dragons.

 

The dragons in question had green and amber eyes, and took far longer than the others upon examining my red tresses, pale skin, smoky green eyes and eruption of freckles. Both jot me down in their pads, and then both glare at each other.

 

“Are you serious?” One growls to the other. “Do I have to compete with you on everything?”

 

The dragon with the amber eyes smirks. “Deal with it, princeling whore.” His voice has a distinctive husky growl to it, as if he's building a fire in his throat. They continue their bickering argument as they go to the other cages, barely paying attention to the other women. My eyes immediately lock upon them with suspicion and hatred,and a grudging interest. They're not ugly. If anything, they're pretty fucking handsome.

 

Doesn't take away the fact that they're currently bickering over who might get to own me.

 

A few other shifters have paused to note me down as well, but I have a strong feeling that it's the dragons I'm going to be torn between.

 

I might not be able to stand this. I don't think I can handle being some shifter's chew toy, dammit. I have my own opinions, my own mind. I'm not a slave.

 

My body, however, seems to think I might like the idea more than expected. My cheeks flush. No. This is not the time and place to syat giving into my fantasies.

But according to the people who captured me and all these other women, we're little more than bargain bitches being sold off in an auction.

 

I'm not sure how long it takes before they finish examining each of the females, but then the auction starts in earnest. There's a stage beyond the rope barrier which they use to start the auction, and I notice the women are being taken out one by one, as they describe them as best as able, given that they know nothing about them other than their features, and subdue any who are acting out of order by jabbing them with a fucking cattle prod.

 

Holy shit.

 

Now, here's the thing. I was taken like an idiot, grabbed before I had the chance to react, overpowered before my muscles could snap into position to defend myself.

 

I have, however, taken a few discreet lessons in Krav Maga. I'm no black belt, but I learned enough to be able to fend off the occasional annoying drunk, or any types of threats that insist on forcing themselves on you.

 

Right now though, there's nothing I can do, and it's frustrating me. Even if I bust out of the cage, I have no idea where I am, and no way to contact. I might die in the wilderness unless I steal a vehicle, and somehow avoid the shifters who will morph into their animal forms to hunt me down.

 

Even if I can physically outcombat any of them in normal forms, I have no chance in hell of overpowering fifty of those fuckers, along with the event organizers.

 

The realization doesn't fill me with confidence. I slump in my cage, not bothering to touch anything, and wait for my turn to come.

 

When it does, three humans – yes, human traffickers, the assholes – yank me out of the cage. Two haul me by my arms, the third walks behind us with the cattle prod, and I'm unceremoniously dragged along to the wooden platform where I'm forced to face a crowd of apathetic shifters, all sitting in seats, keenly scrutinizing me as the announcer starts going on about my “luscious red locks, my exotic and alabaster skin marked with the freckling of youth,” and I have to wonder whether I should laugh or cry.

 

The man with the cattle prod looks as if he really wants to use it when I discreetly crane my neck to face him, and I mentally prepare myself to grab it.

 

I have no control, but I wouldn't mind obtaining a small amount of confidence in a situation where I have no hope of escaping.

 

The bids start.

 

I'm free to stand, though the guards are nearby to stop any trouble, and I turn to smirk at the cattle prod guy, before holding up my middle finger to him.

 

He scowls, steps forward and jabs at me. Instantly, I sidestep, grab the electrical prod by the uncharged handle, step in to kick at his back leg and yank the prod out of his hand. I jab him with it after turning up the ampage, and he spasms, before whirling it to thump at the two guards, who have advanced in to apprehend me.

 

The first falls, pole-axed, the other stares at me warily.

 

The auctioneer stops momentarily to gape. I hear dissent in the crowd, and see more figures swarming to apprehend me.

 

“Look,” I say, my voice loud and clear. “I know I can't escape this. I'm not going to run away. I just wanted to give this asshole a lesson.” My foot nudges the stunned prod holder. “Because fuck him.”

 

The auctioneer blinks slightly.

 

“And fuck you all, really.” I'm belligerent now, drunk on my temporary position of power. It heightens my senses, makes me more secure in my footing, even if I'm as far from secure as I can be. “I'm no slave.”

 

With that in mind, I wave the last guard back, and the others who were clambering onto the stage have also hesitated.

 

“So,” I add. “Who wanted to buy me again?”

 

It's laughable, when the reaction I get is the opposite of what I expected. Hands fly into the air, and the auctioneer is watching me, before turning back to the crowd, nervously starting to sort out the bids.

 

I gape at them.

 

One of the shifters even calls, “A strong woman! Who doesn't want a strong woman for their clan?” And this prompts a big flurry of hands and note waving.

 

The remaining guard has now dragged off the two companions I've injured. The others have tentatively tried to encircle me, and I stand there as confidently as I can, even though my legs are shaking like jello, and I'm flabbergasted at the sudden enthusiasm.

 

I let them take the prod off me, and to my relief, no one tries to punish me. They seem to have gauged the crowd's mood correctly, and leave me alone, except for two replacement guards, who keep a careful distance.

 

Well, fuck. That did not turn out the way I expected.