The dark-haired grizzly man enters the cage. The stocky bloke with muscles and cheap tattoos collects a long chain and two iron bars before following. Iron bars with manacles on either end. An icy chill buries itself in the base of my stomach.

As the soldiers crowd into the enclosed space, the stench of stale sweat and testosterone fills my nose, mingling with Belanger’s tobacco stink. The stocky bloke, Vander, drops the bars on the slate floor, the metal clang like a punch through my gut. Belanger falls back, letting his men step forward.

“I want him strung up and kneeling,” he says to his men.

I’m in trouble. A beating I can take; bruises, I’ll weather; broken bones, I’ve had before. But restraint with bars and manacles is straight out of my nightmares.

My heart already hammers a romping beat, but the broken rhythm of panic stutters in my chest. Rivulets of sweat wet my cheeks. I lower into a ready stance, knees bent, fists high. Four on one is more than I can handle, but whatever. I’ll just give it all I’ve got. Their win is a certainty, but they’ll feel the bite of this prisoner’s teeth before they celebrate.

They approach slowly, circling just outside my reach, moving with the light-footed ease of trained fighters, their bright, hungry eyes eager but cautious. They remind me of wild dogs cornering prey—knowing they have their lunch but wary of their victim’s last desperate burst of violence.

It’s the skinny blond, Collins, who strikes first.

He comes in fast and sleek, expecting his feint to my head to distract from his intended punch to my stomach. I kick high through the gaping hole in his defense and ram my heel into the side of his head. My kicks are strong, my well-developed thighs a result of hours with a drop bag and nothing better to do. But my new super strength lands a whopper, and the man flies sideways so hard his feet leave the ground before he crashes into Belanger, taking them both to the floor. Holy shit.

Belanger swears and pushes the lad off him. “Stand up, you fucking idiot.”

I don’t get time to relish the moment. The other two soldiers come at me together. I block their punches and elbow strikes and manage to get in a few of my own. But they soon crowd me backward. I’m against the bars before I score a successful kick straight into Grizzly’s stomach.

His feet leave the ground, and he slams into the cage bars at the far side, his head thumping metal before he slumps to the stone.

Taking full advantage of the distraction, I send my foot out again and ram it into Vander’s exposed balls before he can respond. He doubles over with a cry, both hands grasping his groin, and falls back to recover.