Wheeler had no clue where the hell he was because they had blindfolded him during the drive. His room looked like a prison cell, minus the sink and bed. The only luxury provided was a toilet, which was a step up from the bucket his previous owner had made him use all those years ago. That guy used to keep the guards in line by placing them on “bucket duty” as punishment. That left an attractive vulnerability. Whenever guards entered a cell, there were all kinds of opportunities for escape. Unfortunately, his new cell had modern plumbing, so they’d probably only enter when taking him to a fight.

Bastards.

“Is someone thirsty?” A guard taunted him in a cockney accent. He looked like a filthy bum—the blackest stubble on his face that Wheeler had ever seen, and a pudgy nose. “Here you are. This one’s on me.” He reached in and swung his arm, holding a metal cup, sending a stream of water onto Wheeler’s pants.

Wheeler remained seated with his back against the wall and his knees bent. The worst thing to do was engage with the guards. Deep down, they knew they were inferior, so it was commonplace for them to rile up the fighters—especially the new ones. Wheeler just sat back and assessed the guard’s stupidity.

“Your raw meat is on the way, you disgusting pig.”

Most guards weren’t predators. They were deer, horses, or even the occasional bovine. Cows weren’t as common, because in the dark ages of their history, they’d been milked and eaten by the poorer Breeds.

Owners only fed the animals—not the humans. So unless you liked chewing on raw meat, you had to shift. They did it as a means to get the animal used to being caged and shackled. Wheeler respected his wolf too much to let him feel like a worthless piece of shit, so he’d learned to eat raw meat in those times.

Wheeler could hear the others stirring in their cells, but he kept to himself. In the end, it just made it harder to kill someone you were on friendly terms with.

A concrete wall stretched along the hall, and he sat there for a long time staring at a crack that ran from the floor right to the center.

Wheeler had a lot in common with that wall.

***

Shortly after Austin walked Prince out to his car, I tiptoed upstairs to check on the baby. I’d always called Maizy the baby because that’s just how I looked at children of any age. Innocence is fleeting. I set a jelly sandwich on the small white table next to her bed.

“How are you feeling, chickypoo?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“Horrible,” she admitted. “Denny wanted to play games, but my head hurts.”

“Do you think you can eat some of this?”

She looked at my plate apprehensively. “I had some soup earlier and now my stomach hurts.”

I laughed. “Well, if Denver cooked it, then it’s no wonder.”