Most days, I’d relish the victory. Today, I’m not sure I won. I’m alive, but I can no longer see the light at the end of the tunnel I’ve been crawling toward for years. It has vanished, up and left. I’ve just got to work out if it’s a good departure or a bad one. I’m leaning toward the negative. If I don’t have goals to aspire to, I may as well be dead.
Incapable of ignoring the uneased churns of my stomach for a second longer, I race into the bathroom attached to the lavish room I awoke in. The heaves of my stomach are so violent, they bring up the meal I ate last night with only two big churns.
Once I’m confident my stomach is empty, I rest my backside on my feet before removing a square of toilet paper to clear away the mess on my lips. It’s funny how the simplest things can make a deranged woman even more unhinged. The softness of the toilet paper as it scrapes my lips is one of those things. The paper—if you were lucky to get any—in my cell was as rough as sandpaper. It added to the pain I experienced every weekend—a pain I’m not noticing this time around.
Confused as to why the lower half of my body isn’t aching, I stand and pace backward until the mirror perched above a double vanity exposes me in all my hideous form. The lifelessness of my eyes is still apparent, and the red welts on my neck are standard, however, there are no grab marks on my breasts, and my vagina isn’t bruised and bleeding. Just from looking at me, you wouldn’t think I had been assaulted tonight. I look untouched.
Well, as untouched as a sex slave can look.
Certain my head is playing tricks on me, I use the facilities, slip a shirt four sizes too big I found on the bed over my head, then exit the room. Upon discovering there’s no lock on the door, much less a guard, I increase the length of my strides. Even with this being a dream, I plan to make the most of it. Usually, my dreams are as horrific as the nightmare I’m living, so a change-up isn’t just nice, it’s highly craved.
My steps slow when accented voices boom into my ears. For the most part, they’re male, but the occasional female ones are added to the mix. Although they’re more moans than words, they most certainly don’t belong to any woman doing something against her will. They’re brimming with too much pleasure to be mistaken as sobs.
I halt partway down the corridor when a sparkling of silver illuminates my pale skin. There’s a skylight above my head. Although the darkness of the sky reveals it’s nighttime, not a cloud hides the moon. It beams through the clear glass so brightly, my usually pasty skin lights up like the window in my room the past ten weeks wasn’t boarded up.
Something so simple shouldn’t be so joyful, but it is. It burns my eyes with tears while reminding me no matter how dark things get, there will always be light. It’s hidden inside of me waiting to be released. I’ve just got to be brave enough to set it free.
After absorbing the moon’s rays long enough to recall I have a beating orifice in my chest, I continue down the hall. When my trek has me stumbling onto a group of people in various stages of undress, I pivot on my heels, prepared to find another way back to the room Ana is in.
I’ve barely tiptoed two steps when I spot a man coming from the other end. He’s large, thick, and stroking himself through his pants. Although his face doesn’t register as familiar, he is exactly the type of man I was expected to entertain when Vladimir kept the members of his crew happy during the quiet weeks.
“Are you lost, little one?”
Shaking my head, I take a step back.
“Are you sure? I think you’re lost. I can show you the way home.” His lips curl into a cruel grin. “Afteryou’ve proven yourself worthy of my help.” When I shake my head for the second time, his smile grows. Just like every man in this country, his evil thrives off fear. “Ah, the silent type. I’m not usually a fan, but I’m willing to give it a whirl for you.”
When he takes a step forward, I take another one back. A squeak almost pops from my lips when my attempt to flee is thwarted by a body just as rigid as the one approaching me. I used to believed there was safety in numbers. I don’t anymore. Men are crueler when they’re showing off in front of their friends.
My silent pleas get answered when a thick, gravelly tone growls out, “Go find a whore to play with Rory. This one isn’t on the cards.” His voice doesn’t have a British accent like Trey’s, however, it’s just as violent. It sends Rory scampering in the direction opposite to the one he was traveling and has my heart rate returning to a safe level, albeit hesitant.
“Stupid piece of shit,” my rescuer mumbles as he spins me around to face him. He’s the man Trey was speaking with earlier tonight. I can’t recall if I’ve heard his name. “What are you doing awake, K? I thought you’d sleep for ages.”
Although he’s asking a question, he doesn’t wait for me to reply. He just continues spinning me until his arm wraps around my shoulders, and he guides me toward a group of people drinking, laughing, and smiling like they didn’t lose any members of their crew tonight. I saw the number of bodies sprawled on the floor during my escape. Not all of them were Vladimir’s men. Even without knowing their names, I knew most of the men in Vladimir’s crew—regretfully.
Halfway to a coffee table lined with bottles of alcohol, packets of smokes, and a variety of drugs, the reason for the prickling of the hairs on my arms comes to light. Trey is in the jacuzzi. He isn’t alone, and none of his late-night bathing companions appear to be fans of personal space. They’re draped all over him, front and back, and everyone one of them is blonde.
My eyes stray from Trey when the man shunting me out of my comfort zone for the second time in my life offers up an introduction to the people seated in the massive living area. “This is Nero, Lexa, Haley, Nathan, Max, and Nerissa.” He shifts on his feet to face me before shoving a frothy pink concoction into my hand. “Everyone, this is K.”
“Hi, K,” the group hums in sync, oddly friendly.
Only Nerissa adds to her greeting, “You’re pretty, K. Perhaps you should come sit with me?” She taps on the minute snip of material next to her meaty thigh.
“Yeah, nah. She is off-limits.” When the unnamed man pushes me into the plush leather chair my knee was balancing against, some of my drink spills onto Trey’s shirt.
I stop panicking about how much trouble I’ll get in for making a mess when a second man’s backside fills part of the chair my skinny frame doesn’t take up. “Taken by who? Nikolai said the women were off-limits, so who could she be taken by, Eight?”
When Eight’s narrowed gaze swings to the other side of the room, I follow the direction of his gaze. I’m not the only one experiencing discomfort by the stranger’s closeness. Trey seems put-off by it as well, but instead of being angry at my chair-hogging companion, he glares at me as if I requested for him to sit with me.
I don’t know what has him so worked up. I’m not the one entertaining five people in a hot tub. They may only be kissing, but that’s the most intimate act there is. Rape, torture, and deprivation of liberty rarely include kissing. None of the men I was forced to ‘entertain’ were interested in kissing me. They wanted my mouth for one thing and one thing only. Although glad none of the women in the jacuzzi are doing that to Trey, for some stupid reason, watching them kiss him hurts just as much.
Needing to settle the flips of my stomach before I hurl on the expensive-looking rug under my feet, I take a sip of the drink Eight shoved into my hand. The burn the liquid hits my throat with is worse than the dryness Trey’s glare instigated. It has me coughing like I’m on the verge of an asthma attack and sends laughter breaking across the room.
The only person not laughing is Trey.
He’s glaring—still.
“Slow slips, baby girl,” encourages the man warming my thighs with his heated gaze. He’s cute, but I’m not interested.I’ll never be interested. “Nothing around here is done in halves. Not even cocktails.”
