Denali
“Favorite cookie?” Nash asks. We both sit on the cot, picking at the food the guards sent in.
“Peanut butter.”
Nash raises a brow. “Peanut butter cookies,” he murmurs.
“They’re easy to make, and almost every kitchen has the ingredients.”
The door swings open and I slam my body back to the wall, fear crawling up my arms. What a cowardly, cringing creature I’ve become.
Nash does the opposite. I peer past his huge body as he faces the triangle of guards.
“You’re supposed to breed her,” one orders.
“I already did.” Nash’s mild voice is at odds with the violent tension in every muscle of his body. He had—after turning my body to molten lava with his tongue between my legs.
“Boss wants you to do it again.” Two of the guards raise batons that crackle with electricity. I suppress a
