Stolen (Saving You Series #1)

Chapter One

~Stolen~

Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved.

    ::Chapter One: Stolen::

~*~

Sto/len/: Verb.
   

 1.Take (another person's property) without permission or legal right and without intending to return it: "thieves stole her bicycle".

     When I’d first heard of this word, it was the call of my pack Alpha – A.K.A my dad – through the mind link, sending for the soldiers and informing them of my capture.

     I was stolen. I was taken. When I was finally old enough to hold my first book, I read this word and imprinted it in my mind. It was because of this word that I was here. I was by no means a ‘person’s property’, so how could I have been taken? But it didn’t matter anymore, because I honestly felt like an item. I felt used, and taken advantage of. I felt nothing.

     The small space that was my designated room wasn’t much to look at. I, for some reason, had been put in the cell far from the staircase, making the room darker and scarier. The bars coming across the window of my door didn’t leave a lot of watching space, but I marveled everyday at the guard’s conversations. The wild gestures of their hands, the different expressions on their face, the change of clothing on their skin when they’d bathe and return to the room everyday; it was the only change I ever saw.

     I sighed shakily and nursed my wrist, cradling it against my chest. No matter how long I’d suffered the longest of tortures in all my years of living; I’d still not become resilient to the pain and anguish. Breathing deeply, I concentrated on the familiar damp, moldy smell of the basement. It wasn’t calming – no, it was a mere distraction; from my thoughts and the pain.

     A clank sounded from the end of the hall, where the staircase was situated. I jolted from my spot on the thin mattress of my bed and anxiously peeled my eyes from the dark, mud-incased wall, to the large door that was sealed shut. I gripped the dirtied, bare mattress between my straggly fingers and glued my eyes to the small window of my door. The familiar sound of footsteps on the staircase made me cringe and I fought hard to stop the shivering my body had become accustomed too at the sign of danger. Which was everywhere here.

     When the sound stopped, I let out a shaky breath and felt my shoulders slump in defeat and relief, my eyes sliding tiredly from the door to the dirtied concrete floor. I had always been on the brink of an emotional meltdown whenever the soldiers travelled from the upper level to the basement. My uneducated mind wished for companionship, for someone to talk to, and at times I’d become desperate enough that I’d been excited to see my Master; but after years and years of tormenting and abuse, I began to lose that feeling. I tried to bury the emotions. I was weak and pathetic, I was lonely, unwanted and completely under the mercy of those who held more dominance over me, and everyday I wished for this suffering to end.

     “Shit.”

     My head snapped toward the door once more and my fear spiked to its highest level. It wasn’t me that had spoken that word, and it was hard for me to understand that particular word. In most of the conversations the soldiers and guards had, I had secretly picked up on words and definitions by their use of context, but this word, I had come to the conclusion, that it held no particular meaning; it was but a means of vulgarity and harshness. And with that thought, I lifted my knees up to tuck my face into them. If the soldiers came to me, I didn’t want to see their face; I didn’t want to witness the battle scars that were painted on their skin from their voyage of destroying other Packs.