Captive Of The Ruthless Warlord Boss

Chapter 8

Word Count: 885 | Released on: Today at 10:33

rsion of the text with l

ys or a week. The hunger had hollowed out her stomach, leaving a constant, gnawing ache. She

e. The blinding beam of a heavy tactical flashlight hit her directly in the

sudden weight on her scalp felt like it was tearing the skin from her skull. Her bound arms were wrenched upward as she wa

give her time to find her footing. He dragged her out of the c

, thick with humidity. Her legs were weak and uncoordinated. She stumbled over t

e, the air grew heavy with a sickening, sweet smell.

ive, murky swamp stretched out before th

egos stood in the center, holding a black lace parasol to

of the knees. Haley collapsed into the wet, foul-smelling

g perfectly still in the murky water were dozens of dark, heavily armored log

dy pulp. His clothes were torn. "Please, Bea!" the man sobbed, spitting blood into the dirt.

el of her shoe sinking into the mud, and kicked him squarely in the broken nose

ho was trembling in the mud. "Watch closely, Grade A. This is w

to breathe. The psychological terror press

and dismissivel

im backward, then launched him forward, tossing him over the muddy bank. David hit the water with a massive splash. He

converging on him. The water churned violently as a single, piercing scream was abruptly cut off.

her throat. She scrambled backward, her bound hands us

ite slip, pinning her to the grou

aley. "Do you understand now? You

olent, uncontrollable spasms. She nodded fra

on back to her. As Bea took a step toward her, Haley let her eyes roll back and allowed her

performance; her body

e could order Cody to drag Haley up, the

r the static was tense. "Bea! Heads up. The boss's convoy

te. The parasol slipped from h

Chapter End

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Captive Of The Ruthless Warlord Boss

Dionisio Wambold Mafia

“Betrayed by my own uncle for a stack of hundred-dollar bills, I was drugged at the Miami airport and trafficked to a heavily armed mercenary compound in the Darien Gap. Stripped of my dignity, I was scrubbed with industrial bleach and graded as an "A-class asset." I was supposed to be a gift for Axel Sterling, the ruthless warlord who owned the estate, but he took one look at our trembling line and coldly declared he had no interest in women. To vent her frustration, the estate manager, Bea, decided to make my life a living hell. She locked me in a pitch-black solitary cell, starving me for days. She dragged me out only to force me to watch runaway girls get torn apart by massive mastiffs and swamp crocodiles. She wanted me completely broken and begging, a mindless toy ready to submit the moment the warlord returned. Sitting in the freezing mud, covered in blood, I was pushed to the absolute brink of madness. I couldn't understand why I was being kept alive while the others were sold off to the cartels. Was it really just because I had recognized a fake 1792 colonial map in his foyer? When Axel finally returned, Bea shoved me onto the burning asphalt, throwing an oil-stained rag at my face. "Wipe them clean! Or I'll throw you back in the pit!" She hoped my clumsy panic would trigger his extreme OCD and get me killed. But I didn't cry, and I didn't beg. Recalling my university antiquities restoration classes, I treated his mud-caked combat boot like a priceless 16th-century manuscript, perfectly lifting the dirt without a single scratch. The warlord stared at my filthy, battered body, his dead eyes finally sparking with a dark, calculating interest. "Stand up. Come inside."”