Captive Of The Ruthless Warlord Boss

Chapter 9

Word Count: 792 | Released on: Today at 10:34

id air, freezing the blood in Bea Gall

ing in the swamp mud, her white slip stained brown and green

el saw his "property" looking like a piece of garbage, he would feed B

s legs were completely numb from terror. She swayed, her kn

ick hemp rope.** The rope fell away. Haley's arms dropped to her sides like lead weights. The sudden rush of blood back into her

e thing. If you show him one ounce of fear, if you make one mistake, I will ensure you su

down the jungle path toward the front of the estate. Haley stumbled over t

atte-black George Patton SUVs roared to a halt in front of the portico. The mer

her knees on the rough, burning asphalt of the driveway. The im

rom him was palpable. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. He wore a black tactical shirt, the fabric pull

eep, dangerous furrow appeared between his brows. His eyes dropped to the mud caked on Haley's legs, the dirt on her face, the filthy white sl

was trying to fix the mess. **Bea stepped forward and gave Haley a hard shove. Haley lost h

led, her voice shrill. "Clea

y combat boots were covered in a thick layer of

by guard and threw it at Haley's head. It hit her cheek and fell to the as

es made her hands feel like they belonged to someone else. She looked up, just an inch, catching sight of Axel's fac

Let her clean it," Axel's voice cut through the heavy air, low and dangerously quiet. "But keep you

order rather than offering protection. The silence in

y rag. She was kneeling on the burning asphalt, staring at the muddy boo

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."”