Page 1

One

Pamela

The humid night air clings to my skin as I hurry through the crowded streets of the French Quarter, the pulsing energy of New Orleans a stark contrast to the gnawing unease in my gut. I've stayed too late at the restaurant again, and now the familiar charm of Bourbon Street feels tinged with menace.

A commotion from a nearby alley freezes me in my tracks. Before I can think better of it, I peek around the corner. What I see makes my blood run cold.

Three men stand over a crumpled figure, weapons glinting in the dim light. One turns, his eyes locking onto mine, and time stands still.

"Witness!" he shouts, and suddenly they're all looking at me.

Panic surges through my body. I run, my heels clattering against cobblestones as I flee. Their heavy footsteps close in, angry shouts growing louder. I dart down an alley, hoping to lose them, only to find myself trapped in a dead end.

I spin around, pressed against the brick wall, as my pursuers round the corner. "Nowhere to run now, bitch."

“We got us a fresh one, boys…”

I close my eyes, bracing for the worst, when a bone-chilling roar fills the alley. My eyes snap open to see a monstrous figure land between me and my attackers.

He's massive and armored with rippling green muscle.

An orc,my mind supplies helpfully, though the textbook definition does nothing to prepare me for the reality.

His movements are a blur of controlled violence, fists connecting with sickening thuds. In seconds, my pursuers are on the ground, broken and unconscious.

The monster of a man turns, and I press myself harder against the wall. His yellow eyes bore into me, feral and intense. Despite having saved me, everything about him screams danger. "Reckon you best come with me, darlin'. Less you’re lookin’ for another dance with these boys."

His tone is casual, almost lazy, but there's steel beneath the honey.

It'snota request.

"I-I don't understand," I say, finding my voice. "Who are you? What's happening?"

He cocks his head, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "Name's Koda, sugar. And what's happenin' is you just became the most wanted little morsel in all of New Orleans."

As if on cue, angry shouts echo from a nearby street. Koda's eyes narrow, and before I can blink, his massive hand clamps around my waist like a vise. "Time's up, darlin'," he growls, hoisting me effortlessly over his shoulder. "We're blowin' this popsicle stand."

I yelp in surprise, kicking and flailing against his iron grip. "Put me down, you brute!" I screech, pummeling his broad back with my fists.

Koda lets out a dark chuckle, completely unfazed by my assault. "Feisty little thing, ain't ya?" His hand comes down hardon my rear, the sharp smack echoing in the alley. "Settle down now, now I’m not above hog tying ya, don’t think I won’t."

With a grunt, he drops me unceremoniously in front of his massive truck. The moment my feet touch the ground, survival instinct kicks in. I pivot, ready to bolt, but Koda's reflexes are inhumanly fast. His enormous hand clamps down on my arm, yanking me back before I can take a single step.

A low, menacing growl rumbles from his chest, the sound so primal it freezes the blood in my veins. His yellow eyes narrow, boring into mine with predatory intensity. Whatever he sees in my face must not satisfy him, because the growl deepens, reverberating through my entire body.

"Ain't convinced you understand the gravity of your situation, little lady," he snarls, his accent thickening with irritation.

His free hand shoots out, massive fingers wrapping around my chin. He forces my face up, grip firm enough to bruise as he makes me meet his gaze.

"Listen here, and listen good," he rumbles, his face inches from mine. I can smell bourbon and something spicier on his breath. "You're in my world now. Ain't no going back, ain't no calling for help. You breathe when I say breathe, you move when I say move. Clear?"

I try to nod, but his grip is too tight. A whimper escapes my lips, equal parts pain and terror.

"I said, is that clear?" Koda repeats, giving me a little shake for emphasis.

"Y-yes," I manage to squeak out, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, what?" he presses, a dangerous edge to his tone.