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The woman's pinch is a sharp reminder of reality, a sting that propels me into action. My muscles tense, ready to strike, to defy, to survive as her grip tightens. The world narrows, and I am a creature of instinct and fury, a wild thing cornered but unbroken. Darkness descends, but my spirit blazes, a beacon in the night.
* * *
I startle awake, a wave of panic sweeping over me like a sudden storm, every sense instantly sharpened, alive. My pulse isn't just racing; it's relentless, savage drumming, a furious echo of my disquiet. Where am I? Where is Summer? My eyes remain shut, my body poised on the precipice of flight. That's always been my fatal flaw—leaping without looking, plunging headlong into chaos. Usually, it's just words that betray me, but oh, how life loves to remind me of my overconfidence.
A strange golden light sears behind my eyes, pulling me back to that moment with him—the monster, the kidnapper. Bronze eyes that whispered secrets and unknown promises. Those eyes haunt me now, distracting me from the urgent reality . . . while at the same time bringing me a sense of belonging or peace. As if he’s the one I’m meant to be with. I shake my head at my fanciful thoughts. Love? A fantasy I'm never destined to find. A cruel joke played by Fate. My slave name, Destiny, is a bitter reminder, a taunt. Now is not the time for dreams or regrets. Now is the time to save my very life.
I lie motionless, forcing my heart to slow its wild dance. Panic clouds judgment, and clear thinking is my only weapon. I find solace in the wisdom of books, those faithful companions. With a mental tug, I wrestle my anxiety into submission, sending a silent plea into the universe—keep Summer safe. Not that I believe in gods or prayers. The pious sicken me, especially those who wield faith like a weapon. But caution is my ally in this dark moment.
A pang of agony washes over me, a sudden deluge of fears and regrets, memories and nightmares. I let the pain flood in, filling me with the terror that they may kill Summer before I can save her. Sharp needles of self-pity sew threads around my wounded heart. None of this is our fault. The injustice of it claws at my soul, but there are no tears. There is only resolve. It's up to me to save us. I stand alone.
My self-reflection is cut short as I take stock of my situation. The rags I'm clothed in cling to my body like a grim reminder of my reality. I’ve been kidnapped, not rescued by Prince Charming. At least my dignity remains untouched, though I can't help but cringe at my own scent. A bath, once a simple pleasure, has become a desperate need. But fatigue overwhelms me and I slip back into the abyss.
* * *
I awaken, nestled warmly in a bed that whispers of luxury and bears the faint, calming scent of lavender. The shabby warehouse, those lifeless motels that have been the dismal backdrop to my existence these last weeks, feel distant. My terror ebbs, melting into the pool of anxiety that never leaves my side. Surely if they were going to hurt me, they would have done it by now. Wishful thinking! The very fabric of my being strains, listens, reaching out to the unseen, touching only white noise, bird song, and the caress of leaves in the wind.
Curiosity, that ever-present companion of mine, nudges my fear aside just enough to allow my eyes to open—a mere sliver—and I explore the room without moving my head. The world's a blur, yet it's enough to detect any shift in the air, any sign of presence. No one. The room breathes emptiness. Gingerly, I push up on my elbows, and the silence greets me still. Huh… highly peculiar behavior for a pimp. Yet, I sense the watchful eyes of my captors, hiding in shadows.
Where the hell are my glasses? My eyes' trusted allies, gone, leaving me vulnerable. My heart drums a rhythm of warning, but I'm anchored, unwilling to move until I'm sure I'm not dancing at the edge of a precipice.
My other senses surge forth, warriors on high alert, searching for that sound, that presence. But the house hums its own song, mingling with nature's chorus. I close my eyes, diving into myself.
Like a storm unleashed, my mind hurtles into hyperdrive. I cloak myself in anger, letting it eclipse the intense fear threatening to devour me. Fear of the past, the betrayals, the monsters that walk in human form. Pure, untamed rage floods my veins, fuels me, becomes my fortress.
The memories loom, specters in the dark. My stepfather, a vermin of a man, trading Summer and me for gambling debts. His face flashes before me, twisted and greedy, and I'm filled with a revulsion that tastes like bile. I would die before letting them own me. But not Summer. Sweet, fragile Summer, surrendering her soul, piece by piece, until all that remained was a shell, a mannequin's vacant stare. My heart aches with the memory, a wound that never heals.
Summer's essence drifts in my mind, a fragile thread that connects us. My intuition, my hidden gift, reaches out to her. The world once scorned it, labeled me mad, but it's my compass, my secret strength. All I find now is murky fog, but it tells me she breathes still.
A quick glance around, a touch to my own skin—no new injuries, just the map of my survival etched in scars and bruises. Did they drug me? Kidnap me? Ransom me? My mind spins, but I shake the thoughts away. This room, this moment, is my reality. I must face it, explore it, understand it. Everything else is mere shadows and whispers, echoing in the chambers of the unknown.
The lavish surroundings tell me I'm in the den of the very wealthy. The contemporary design, minimalistic elegance, no photos—it's a world foreign to me yet oddly fascinating. It's a fantasy, yet my intuition tells me there's something more, something special about my captor. A sizzle, a connection, something unspoken and mysterious that tugs at the edges of my consciousness. But for now, it remains a puzzle, a secret waiting to be unraveled.
Men forcing me brings me back to reality. Most of the girls said their minds left their bodies, that they didn’t feel or remember anything. Not I. The drugs couldn’t drown out the visceral memories of the stinking, sweating bodies, their movements a grotesque dance that still lingers in the corners of my mind. No matter how hard I strained to detach, to drift into oblivion, I remained tethered. Bound to the reality, even as the drugs kept me dull-witted and numb. Viper, his very name a snake's hiss, had one of his vile henchmen glued to me, shadowing every move. A sudden flare of indignation erupts within me: What have we ever done to deserve this? I quell the surge, banishing it down the dark path of self-pity. Later. There will be time enough for that later.
Summer. Her name is a balm, a flicker of warmth in the icy void. I turn inward, reaching for that delicate thread where I touch her soul with my intuition, my so-called "spidey sense." It's a secret I've guarded fiercely, ever since the day I confided in an aunt only to watch the word of my "psychosis" spread through our fractured family like wildfire. I sigh, a weary exhalation, and refocus. When I tune in, all I find is murky fog, a nebulous sensation that tells me she's alive. But it's a whisper, faint and distant, and my heart aches with the longing to know more.
Another quick glance around the room, a cursory survey that reveals no immediate danger. My eyes drift down, examining my own form. No new injuries, except for the bruise blooming where that blond fiend pinched me. My lips tighten at the thought. Should our paths cross again, she'll feel the bite of my words. My stature may be small, but my tongue wields a sharpness that can slice through the toughest armor.
The taste of dust coats my mouth, dry and gritty, and a band of pressure tightens around my head—a testament to whatever they used to render me unconscious. My body bears the marks of my survival, the physical toll that life has extracted, each scar and bruise a chapter in a story written in flesh and blood. Questions churn, relentless. Why the drugs? Why the kidnapping? Ransom? A bitter laugh escapes me. Viper won't rest until he finds me, his darkness a black hole from which there is no escape. Am I merely bait? I shake the thought away. Now is not the time for speculation, for shadows and echoes. This is my reality, stark and demanding. Deal with it.
“Justice.” His faint word whispers through my mind.
The room around me, with its minimalist elegance and contemporary design, offers a surreal contrast to my turbulent thoughts. That these people are loaded is evident, yet it's all surface, an opulent facade that can't quite hide the underlying tension. My intuition stirs again, a sizzle, a connection I can't quite place. . . disturbing yet intriguing. The man who brought me here, my captor, is not what he seems. Something more lurks beneath the surface, a mystery that beckons, tantalizing and elusive. I don't know where I am, but I know I'm on the brink of something profound, a dance at the edge of understanding. But for now, it remains a question without an answer, a song without words.
A groan claws at my throat, but I stifle it, swinging my legs over the side of the bed as a throb of pain pulses in my head. It's a dance of agony, an intimate embrace with suffering . . . and it’s not the kind of dance I like. My head swims, a whirlpool of confusion and nausea. I rest a minute, forearms on my skinny little thighs, gulping air like a fish out of water. When the sickness passes, I raise my head, feeling the weight of exhaustion draped over my shoulders. The luxurious bed is a siren, teasing me with the promise of oblivion. But no time for that now—I've got to get my ass in gear and get my shit together.
My glasses. Please let them be— My silent prayer cuts off, a symphony of relief, as I find them on the minimalist bedside table and slide them on. The world sharpens, new lenses bringing life into focus. Sweet. They fixed them. My smile withers quickly as realization blooms. How long was I out? Is this some cruel illusion? Those magnetic eyes sear into my mind, leaving a sizzle of connection, of belonging. Will I see him again?
Hate surges, a violent tide, as I take in the luxury surrounding me. Surprise and curiosity momentarily blanket my fear, and I flop back, moaning as my sore torso meets the queen-size bed with its artfully dropped ceiling, forming a modern canopy—an eight-foot embrace. To my left, a window stretches like a glimpse into another world, twelve or fifteen feet from floor to ceiling. A view of a vast body of water lies before me, like a great lake, its surface a mirror to my confusion. The sun is aloft; the world outside has moved on without me.
Where the hell am I? How long have I been here? If my screaming need for fluid is any indication, it’s been at least a couple of days.
The room is an echoing chasm of opulence. Midway across, a dividing wall houses a glassed-in gas fireplace, a beacon of contemporary design. A round wood table, surrounded by inviting chairs, sits on the other side, a large vase of lilacs at its center as does a pitcher of water and a pretty glass. It's a stage set for comfort, yet the luxury only twists the knife of anxiety. The whispers of other girls haunt me, tales of wealthy men who bought and broke them. Viper's venomous words about my appeal slither through my mind. “Daddy kink is big business,” he’d say. My youthful appearance is no blessing here.
I rise, heart hammering a desperate rhythm, waiting for the next wave of horror to wash over me. A lesson learned in the dark corners of life: joy is a prelude to pain. I stand stock-still, holding my breath, my senses sharpening, reaching for any sign I'm not alone. No Viper... I'd sense him. His brutality would be a storm, tearing the place apart. He's nowhere, and yet his shadow lingers. Nothing subtle about that man.
Pain and tension stretch through my body as I roam the room, examining my luxurious prison. Everything is ultra-modern every single thing looks more expensive than anything I’ll ever be able to afford. I don't know a lot about decorating, but everything speaks of extravagance. The door's unlocked, a silent invitation. But I know better. An unlocked door in a rich guy’s mansion doesn't mean freedom—it whispers of surveillance, of unseen eyes watching.
