Page 108 of Rogue

I’m inside the catacombs. Seems this place and I have developed an affinity for each other. A hate-hate relationship. Welcome to the darker side of the City of Love.

I pull myself up into a sitting position on the hay they’ve left me on, wincing as the iron cuff on my left ankles chafes against my skin. The front of my head throbs like a migraine on steroids, and I’ve a bump the size of a goose egg just above my temple.

A long chain is attached to the cuff on one end and secured to cell bars of what could only be described as an archaic, eighteenth-century-style prison cell on the other. Surprised? Not really. Artwork, Prick Patrols, cell phone service—it seems anything goes down here in the catacombs.

The prison is small, composed of three cells, a path running the length of them and a wooden exit door that sits across from the middle cell. There’s a steel barrel against the wall near the empty cell. Iron bars that look like individual cell bars rest up against the wall beside it.

My attention turns toward body’s my aches and pains. Besides the wicked headache and chafed ankle, my back aches like I’ve been run over by a semi. Tackled by one—if my memory’s correct. I’ll be bruised but nothing is broken. Alive and breathing—what a complete shocker.

I consider the chain chafing against my left ankle. Either captives in the eighteenth century had enormous ankles or this was fashioned for a much larger male. In less than ten seconds, my ankle is free. One problem solved. At least I’ll be free to fight them off when they return to question then kill me.

“I have water. Can you catch it?”

I narrow my eyes and through the darkness make out the shape of a man in the adjacent cell. He’s sitting up against the bars, facing me. An older man, with a fragile air about him. No wonder. The small, grimy window makes my cell a Hilton compared to his.

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“A few hours.”

“Who are you?” I ask, curious.

“No one.”

My eyes widen at that. Interesting.

“Why are you here?” he asks. Funny, but he sounds a hell of a lot younger than he appears. And not French but . . . British?

“I didn’t have much choice in the matter.” I give him a sigh, then add, “Guess they didn’t like my perfume.”

He snorts.

Hell, if my throat wasn’t sore—care of Jaxson’s love choke—I’d laugh.

“Drink up.” He tosses me a bottle of water, which I catch through the cell bars. As I pry off the cap and, taking a long sip, shift my attention to finding a way out of this hellhole.

A filthy mattress lies on the worn, chipped wall on one side of my cell. Wrought-iron bars make up the other walls. There is a door—locked for sure. Nothing visible that’ll help my escape. My attention returns to the chipped wall and the hole some poor soul has dug, as if digging your way out of here would ever be an option within the greater catacomb maze.

“Do yourself a favor. When they ask you for your favorite letters, don’t tell themF.U.”

“F.U.?”

“Fuck you.That’ll earn you two letters. Double the pain.”

Two letters? Before I can ask him if there’s a little more something mixed in with the water, I hear the Pricks fiddling with the wooden door.

I hastily toss the empty water bottle back to the old man—who I have a sneaking suspicion is anything but—then slump over into a fake stupor.

My cell door creaks as it’s unlocked. Three sets of footsteps approach. Adrenaline kicks in. They’ve left the door open. Underestimating my condition. Underestimating me. I know how I’m going to play this but it’ll require . . . patience, and me reigning my temper in.

Yeah, good luck with both.

“Son réveil,” someone orders.

I gasp and sputter as water hits me in the face. Shaking my head, I stare up at them in horror. “Where am I?” The fragile tone in my voice makes me want to vomit but works wonders on the three Pricks.

The smallest of the men leans in toward me, places a finger beneath my chin, and raises my head up higher. “Elle est belle, non?”

Thank God I’ve come to my senses, because these Pricks aren’t wasting any more time. I bat my eyelashes, pretending to clear water from my eyes, spurring them on.