Rejected No More: The Exiled Princess Returns

Charity's consciousness slammed back into her body with a violent surge of pain. Her skull throbbed as if a rusted neural spike was being driven directly between her eyes.

She gasped, her lungs expanding, and the harsh scent of copper blood and the damp, metallic smell of rotting coolant instantly coated the back of her throat.

She tried to push herself up from the cold floor. Her arms felt like they were filled with wet clay.

Through her blurred vision, she caught sight of her own forearms. They were thick, bloated, and covered in a layer of pallid, unhealthy flesh. Her heart skipped a heavy beat.

A harsh, metallic grating sound shattered the dead silence of the room. It was the sound of heavy chains dragging against steel.

Charity forced her stiff neck to turn. She looked toward the dark corner of the cramped, filthy bedroom.

In the dim, flickering light of a dying neon strip, a man was chained to the frame of a narrow bed. His body was lean, heavily muscled, and covered in dark, drying blood. Thick, high-voltage metal chains—forged to restrain even a cyber-augmented beast-tribe warrior—wrapped around his wrists and throat, locking him in place. The fur of his fox ears was matted with grime, and his tail lay limp against the floor, its silver tip stained rust-red.

The man slowly raised his head.

His eyes locked onto hers. They were the narrow, elongated eyes of a fox, glowing with an unnatural, neon-green light—bio-optical implants that marked him as a high-tier warrior. The raw, unfiltered violence in his stare pierced straight through her pupils, pinning her to the floor.

A low, heavy panting tore from his throat, sounding more like a wild beast than a tribesman. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a smile that made the hair on Charity's arms stand on end.

"The second this chain snaps," Hjalmar rasped, his voice a ruined, gravelly sound, "I am going to rip your head from your neck."

The sheer, physical weight of his murderous intent hit Charity like a blow to the chest. Her stomach plummeted. Pure survival instinct took over, and she scrambled backward, her palms scraping against the rough floor.

Hjalmar suddenly exploded forward.

He lunged at her with terrifying speed. The heavy metal chains snapped taut with a deafening crack, the steel groaning under his immense, augmented strength.

His blood-crusted fingertips stopped mere inches from her face, the heavy chains groaning in protest as they jerked him back. The sheer force of his lunge sent a violent rush of stale air across her cheeks, stinging her skin.

Cold sweat drenched Charity's spine. Her lungs seized. She kept crawling backward, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Her hand hit a pile of clothes on the floor. She grabbed a massive, torn synthetic-fur cloak and blindly wrapped it around her shivering, bloated body.

Behind her, Hjalmar threw his head back and let out a chilling, manic laugh.

"Run!" he mocked, the sound