She tried to move. The muscles in her neck, shoulders, back and arms protested. She gritted her teeth as hot needles of pain drove deep as if piercing her very bones.

Cold storage. Just like the Ministry. Far cheaper than providing food and sleeping tubes! And if a few should die…

She’d been sentenced, given death. Why put the condemned through this pain? Why not kill them in transit? Or did the Ministry want them to suffer before facing execution?

She stood exposed, her nipples taut, painful kernels. Restrained, her arms were pulled behind her back and her hands were bound to an icy rod. Her feet were frozen to a circular platform emitting a pale, yellowish glow.

Where am I? What prison?

Before her stood a naked male, similarly restrained. Young, not much beyond his second decade, his head, his entire body was denuded of all hair. His olive-colored skin held the gray pallor consistent with prolonged cold storage. Next to him was another bound prisoner. Naked and hairless, the golden-skinned woman was short in stature, with a stocky frame and full breasts. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her wails bounced off the high ceilings, making the vast dark chamber surrounding them all the more eerie. Standing in a circle on a suspended platform, they were isolated.

One hundred prisoners had boarded the transport. Why had she and these two been singled out?

"Where are we?" she asked. Her head ached, her brain registering the painful awakening of tendons, sinew and muscles.

The male prisoner’s eyelids fluttered open. "Draco."

The planet of the dead!

"Draco." Her breath caught. She swallowed, forcing her fear down her throat. "You must be wrong."

He turned his head toward her. "Wrong?"

A small triangular tattoo identical to the one she’d received upon her sentencing marked the corner of his left eye. The female prisoner bore no such brand.

A cold, painful laugh rushed from the prisoner’s throat. "Those they want to suffer are sent to Draco."

A strangled cry caught in Jastra’s throat. Her heart raced as nightmare images flooded her mind. Her master’s lifeless body. The blood. Screams. Fear so palpable she still tasted it. She’d never seen so much blood. Unfortunately, she’d been the one to find him.

"You are the one who sliced Hrice to pieces with a laser knife?"

The blood. So much. She shook her head. "I killed no one."

His lips curled. "I see the judges believed you."

"I was falsely accused. He was dead when I found him." She turned her head as she often had, sweeping her waist-length hair to cover her master’s brand on her breast, but her head felt light, oddly chilled. Then it struck her. She glanced down. Feeling all the more naked, Jastra closed her eyes.

"You were Hrice’s slave. His to fuck! His to discard."

Shocked at the venom in his voice, Jastra met the prisoner’s cold gaze. Men had told her many things. They’d complimented her beauty, whispered hot, sexy words when they fucked her, but never had they insulted her.

He stared at the heraldic symbol branded on her right breast. "What did you expect, justice?"

The brand was a reminder of her father’s shame, of Hrice’s ownership. Debtors paid with their children’s lives. She’d paid.

"Hrice deserved to die. At least your act had benefit."

The disk beneath her feet glowed brighter, her body warmed. White-hot pain shot up her legs. "What do you know of Hrice? Who are you to judge?"

"He is Brasov," a deep voice answered from directly behind her. A giant of a man, with long flowing hair pale as the winter sun and worn well beyond his broad shoulders, stepped out of the dark recesses and into her line of vision. His fur vest belted about a narrow waist revealed well-muscled arms and smooth skin. Far paler than her own, it was almost white.

She’d never seen another man like him.