Sold To The Dragon Princes: The Novel Read online

  © Copyright 2016 by Daniella Wright - All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Title

  Sold To The Dragon Princes

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  PARANORMAL & SCI-FI COLLECTION

  Animal Prince

  Double Fangs

  Stranger

  Vamp's Captive

  Ripped

  Invasor

  The Hunt

  Prisoner X

  Captured By The Warriors

  Forced

  Sold To The Dragon Beasts

  Sold To The Nasty Beasts

  EROTIC & ARRANGED MARRIAGE COLLECTION

  Trapped

  Bratty Boy

  The Writer

  Bride To The Heartless Veteran

  Promised To Mr. Cold

  Her Ruthless Husband

  Inappropriate

  Married To A Monster

  Promised To The Devil

  Unreciprocated Love

  MAFIA & BAD BOY COLLECTION

  Forbidden Lust

  Sold

  Twisted Games - Book 1

  Twisted Games - Book 2

  NEW ADULT & COLLEGE COLLECTION

  Three Perfect Students

  Double Education

  First Time In College

  MÉNAGE MFM COLLECTION

  After Divorce

  Double Team

  Double Army

  War Times

  Sold To The Dragon Princes

  The Novel

  By: Daniella Wright

  Chapter One

  It's funny how quickly someone's life can change. Once, I didn't think much would change at all. Everything was pretty monotonous and packed full of boredom. You know the drill. Go to work at a supermarket. Deal with shit from customers who think they know better than you when they know nothing. We even have a little sign in our staffroom stating that the customer is always right. Even when they're not and you just want to shove their inflated egos up their bubble butt behinds.

  When I'm not silently cursing people under my breath, giving them the stare or imagining trapping them in a painful arm lock, I sometimes masturbate in the bathroom. Usually when I'm bored out of my mind, so my thoughts start wandering off into pornographic tracks. I even have a nice bullet vibrator for the job, since it's easy to carry around in my handbag. I might be a little sexualized, yes. Not enough that I've done the nasty with someone else, but certainly enough so that I have all sorts of sex toys lying around at home. Courtesy of a little site where you can buy things and have them packaged discreetly. Which basically means that if you're going to buy that purple dildo, the box it comes in won't have Purple Dildo or any suspicious images and shapes on it. Useful, right? I might just do that for my friend Lucy at some point, or even my father, and have no indication of who it came from. I'd love to hear about my mother's explosion when she finds out he has a dildo.

  When I'm not absorbed in my work or having a quick five minutes stimulating my clit, I occasionally resist snide glances and attempted gropes from the upper management. I admit I'm secretly pleased and flattered at the attention, though there are times when it gets a little too much. It's to the point where most female employees find it difficult to last six months before deciding fuck this and disappearing to God knows where. Just not at the job I work, being harassed by the boss. I'm okay with it, simply because I'm quite brutal with the fact that I'm not interested. So he makes half hearted attempts – I just don't let him get away with it. Anyone with some backbone can handle that. If you don't have such a backbone, he won't know to leave you be.

  Sometimes you really need to slap someone about the face until it registers in their tiny brains and they leave you alone. I've noticed women all the time trying to be polite, trying not to state outright exactly how they feel about someone harassing them, and it simply doesn't work. Of course, you'll get some individuals who don't give a shit either way, but for the most part, you can stave off the creepiest of them.

  Anyway I tried to pretend I like my job. At times, it's a welcome distraction from home, when I've become recently single and live in a property I can barely make the rent on each month. My parents would help, but they're piss-broke themselves, and barely feed each other, let alone a ravenous woman who consistently eats above what her body can allow. So far I seem to have that super fast metabolism working for me, but my mom insists it'll break down once I hit thirty.

  Them's the breaks, right? I have a love-hate relationship with my name; Bronnen McLaughlin. It's been carried through my family for generations, since the whole potato famine thing. The name suits me better as an adult than as a kid, so at twenty-four years of age, I don't get as many eyebrow raises as before. Still get some, because there ain't a lot of people called Bronnen in these parts.

  So, yeah. On this perfectly normal day of perfectly boring things happening, when I'm walking back home through the park, pretty and green and full of dog walkers – I pass a few shifters. Shifters are distinguishable by their wacky eye colors, eccentric clothing and dangling pendants from their necks which helps humans to identify their type. It was one of the laws passed by all human societies so that people can understand precisely what they're supposed to be, lurking under their human skins. People are attracted to predatory ones like wolves and bears, and shy away from ones like crocodiles and elephants. I guess they're just not sexy enough.

  As I passed them, I noticed one of them pause and give me a really long stare.

  Long enough to make me uncomfortable.

  We've only just really tried integrating shifters into our society, but there has been problems cropping up around the place. Stories of women going missing. Fingers pointing towards shifters and their sometimes alien ways. It certainly conjures up a lot of hate from extremist groups, who think we should kick the shifters out and seal our borders to them.

  Though I'm willing to dismiss them as rumors, I can't help but feel nervous whenever one takes longer than they should to stare at me. I have some rather illicit fantasies about them, ones I'm ashamed to admit to listening ears – a fantasy I'm sure would turn out to be vastly different in reality. But the point of a fantasy is a safe zone to imagine the worst of our desires, right? So we're free to imagine the dirtiest, twisted things that our minds can conjure up, and no one ever has to know exactly what.

  Certain features for the shifters in women stand out, I suppose. Striking ones, like my red hair and ridiculously pale skin when it's not erupting out in freckles.

  Seriously, those things explode on my face when spring starts and persist throughout the summer like open sores.

  Once I got far enough from the shifter, whose pendant I didn't examine closer enough to determine their animal, I let them slide out of mind, mind drifting to the meal I had in the fridge, ready to be microwaved, because I usually can't be bothered to cook once I come back and crash from a long day at work.

  I walk around everywhere since I sold my car to save on bills, but I do miss having the ability to just drive around at will.

  It's when I was about a block away from my apartment that shit hit the fan.

  A car pulled up on the road beside where I'm walking. Unfortunately, the shortcut I took to reach my apartment faster also means that I have no one to watch as two men an
d a shifter leap out, seize me and clamp a hand over my mouth, and bundle me into the back seat.

  My former defence training goes out the window in those frozen moments of indecision. I still reflect back on that now, livid at myself for being that rabbit caught in headlights. I eventually put up a struggle, squirming and trying to scream like a banshee. But one of them switches their hand with a cloth, with the distinctive smell of chloroform on it.

  It didn't work instantly. I continued writhing, tears springing to my eyes, terror pounding my heart, as blackness began to ink at the corners of my vision. I saw a dot appear in the middle, before it expanded out and sucked me into nothingness.

  And that, is precisely how my life changed. At the hands of a shifter and his pathetic human cronies.

  When I woke up, it took me several moments to adjust to my new surroundings. I found myself locked in a wooden cage with a crude padlock holding the door together.

  Then I let the memories of the kidnap wash over my mind, and fixate on the point when they grabbed me. Why didn't I pay attention to that car pulling up? Why didn't I turn to look at them and see the intent in their faces? Why didn't I run? Why didn't I fight back stronger? It's not like I don't have the ability. But once your opponents have certain locks on you, there's shit fuck all you can do.

  And where am I, anyway? There's straw bedding underneath me. There's also a fucking water spout like the ones hamsters and rabbits drink in their cages, and a metal bowl of dried fruit. Aside from the obvious cage issue, like I'm a rodent waiting for some greasy haired owner to take me and neglect me back at their homes, what else is there?

  There's sounds of distress all around. Cries, gibbers, moans and gasps. Side by side to me are other women in the same kind of cage I am, and when I get over my panic and indignation enough to examine them better, I see that all of them are astonishingly beautiful or stand out in their respective physiques.

  There's a platinum blonde with a curvy figure, and broad shoulders. She's currently sipping at the spout, trying to work at the water without seeming like some wretched creature. There's a dark haired, light skinned woman who looks as if she has Irish blood in her. Such creamy skin – the type I'm jealous of, since mine is a volcanic eruption of freckles, and is likely prone to puckering at a later stage. There's an Asian with blue eyes. A heterochromatic woman, with one green and one brown. A dark skinned woman with blonde, puffy hair. So many types. My vision slides over the rest with a growing sense of unease. The way we're lined up with our identical cages, with a minimal amount of items in the cage to allow us to hide behind, I realize that we're effectively on display.

  In the 21st century, the one thing I wasn't prepared for was the idea of human women being shoved into cages and lined up. Realization and horror hits me when I see to the far left of us, a line of people. No. Shifters. There's a line of fucking shifters waiting behind a roped off entrance.

  My God. We're being auctioned. Somehow, we've gone back to ancient times, where slavery is fashionable and certainly what's expected of us. There's no other explanation for it.

  Desperately, I look around for any signs that I can recognize. Streets. Roads. What I do see instead is a rather lovely view of some mountains, though I don't exactly recognize said mountains, and a lot of trees and bushes. There's no signs of civilization, other than a dirt track road that trails on the other side of our cages, opposite the line of shifters.

  Wherever we are, we're isolated. Even if all of us joined our voices together in a scream, no caring ears will overhear us. We're alone together.

  Maybe those extremist groups had it right after all. Shifters are stealing human women. And selling them off. They have the audacity to abduct us from the streets of major cities. Not just in rural farming areas, or sniffing around the slums for those people who have slipped through the cracks and are far more easily lost – they're also going for people who will be missed. You can bet I'll be on the newspapers within a few days, with my parents pleading for me to return home, or for whoever has me to bring me back in one piece and they won't tell anyone.

  My heart aches a little for them. There's no way to contact them of course. Even if I had a cellphone, I don't think I'll be getting much reception in a place like this. We are surrounded by pinewood forests, rocky trails and snow-tipped mountains. Wind howls in the distance, adding a mournful quality to the place where we're imprisoned, but the trees and cliffs around us act as perfect windbreaks. I had all my identity wrapped up in my handbag, from my driving license to my passport. If they burned all the contents within that little bag, I'd be little more than a ghost in these mountains. An invisible person who could feasibly vanish off the face of the earth, and no one can track me.

  Several of the women try to strike up nervous conversation, but I keep my mouth clamped shut, testing the strength of the cage I'm in. as Bear Grylls likes to say: Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

  Time to put some of that improvisation into use. I've never missed a day of work yet, and I'm not happy at the prospect of getting fired – even if I might have a valid reason to not turn up. With being kidnapped and everything. I doubt even being dead is a good enough excuse for my boss to allow someone to take the day off. He likes to hound you with text messages and calls which either make it sound like you'll basically be fired if you don't come into work in the next ten seconds, or he'll tell you exactly how hard a time the rest of the team is having because you didn't turn up for your shift.

  It's pretty shitty when your boss does that, even when his workers present a sick note to him. He'll be all like “Yeah, okay. But you know, it's a really busy day, and Rob's been already working three thousand hours overtime, and you don't see him stopping because of a little stomach bug. But I suppose it's because you're a woman, you're more delicate with certain things, right? But don't worry. We'll be fine. We always are.”

  On second thought, I'd like my boss to fire me. Fucking prick. I don't know why I put up with that, or why I think it's a good idea because I don't take shit. If I really didn't take shit, I wouldn't be there in the first place. I should drop kick his impotent ass and chokehold him until his eyes pop out. I start running through various moves I can do in my head, before forcing them out with a sigh. I'm distracting myself. I want to think about anything than the shifters gradually milling up by that roped off pass, conversing with one another, acting like they're waiting for a fucking shop to open. Maybe it's special bargain day or something.

  After a few more moments testing the strength of the cage, hoping to find some kind of structural weakness or a really shitty lock, I give up and simply sit. There's little else I can do except resign myself to my current fate. There is another awkward matter to deal with as well. In spite of where I am, what's happening to me, and the obvious dangers of being shipped off to some shifter sex trafficker or something – there's a dampness between my thighs.

  Part of me radiates disgust at the idea that I could find a situation like this arousing. I don't think I'd be aroused at all, and more likely screaming when I'm approached. Yet somehow I have that feeling anyway. I don't leak otherwise, and I have that small burn of excitement in my veins. My body is reacting contrary to my mind. Possibly because of the shadow of danger, because I can't think why else I'm reacting like that. Danger can have an exciting element, but there's danger and then there's sheer terror.

  Anyway, I'm trapped in this thing. Not quite a helpless and defenceless damsel, given my training. I have been knock to knock over people almost twice my weight, though that also involves a lot of improvisation, since I'd be insane to try and tackle a sumo wrestler head on.

  Regardless of any martial prowess I contain, I'm imprisoned here to be ogled at by male shifters, all who may be lusting after my body, flesh, or crimson hair. I've heard rumors of some who crave the taste of flesh. That's what the propaganda against shifters states – that they can't shake off their desire for human flesh, and we should never let them be incorporated into society, where they can take
chunks out of us and be legally protected in the process.

  Before, I believed it all to be baseless paranoia. Now I'm not so sure. There may be more truth to it than I ever imagined.

  The girl in the cage next to me, a dark haired woman with light brown eyes stares at me. She isn't so distressed like the others. She also has that look as if she knows how to defend herself, and a coiled tension to her body, as if she's seconds away from pouncing. I appraise her.

  “Yo,” she says.

  “Yo.” When she doesn't add anything to the conversation, I say, “Name's Bronnen.”

  She smirks at this. “Bronnen? Funny name. Mine's Mel. Short for Melantha.”

  “Funny name,” I reply back, grinning as well. She has a quaint Texan accent. Her words have that way of rolling off her tongue, but also sounding like there might be something stuck in her throat. “Our parents sure suck at naming, right?” For a second, I think that if she chose the name herself, I've basically shot down any tentative effort at friendship. She nods, now folding her arms across her knees, which are scabbed. There's a real tomboy appearance to her.

  “We can't all be from perfect families where nothing ever goes wrong. Apparently we can be a special kind of 'fucked,' though. Got us some bastards over there.” She jerks her head to the shifters. “My sis thinks they'll take us away to a place that ain't on our human maps. Like, spirit us away, yunno?”