Drugs. She’d fallen into a habit to disconnect herself from the abuse at home. It was awful to think it—but it fit. Everything fit.
But how did she have the money for it?
By doing whatever she had to,I thought.
My father’s voice screamed. “Do you think I like watching my daughter whore herself out and ruin my reputation on these damn streets?!”
Tears pooled, blurring the neon lights into streaks of color. My poor sister.
Seeing the realization shatter my face with grief, the bartender leaned closer. Some of that hardness in his face dissolved. He looked at me worriedly.
“I’m sure she’ll be okay,” he said, squeezing my wrist across the bar. “She got out, didn’t she? Maybe she paid off her debts.”
“What if she didn’t?” I asked, wiping a stray tear with the back of my hand. “What if… what if she’s been…” I couldn’t say the last word:trafficked. Sold as flesh like so many others to repay a debt she should never have had.
The bartender’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
“The only person who would really know what happened to her is Darragh, but I’m not letting you up there again... Not after shit hit the fan last time. Take my advice. Go home. Tell your boyfriend where you’ve been and let him deal with it. Understand?”
I nodded numbly. He was right. I had no business being anywhere near Darragh and I knew it. I gave a shaky thank-you and turned and walked away, my head spinning with the realization that Camila was likely trapped in a world I couldn’t even imagine.
I left without bothering to find the girls and let them know. They didn’t care, and I didn’t care to pretend they did.
The night air hit me cold. I stood on the curb, my fingers trembling as I called an Uber. I looked over my shoulder, the skin on the back of my neck prickling. The street was nearly empty.
Tristian hadn’t messaged back. I told myself that was fine, that he’d gone straight to the gym like I’d asked. I’d tell him everything when I got back. It would be so much easier to do it on my own terms, rather than him bearing down on me in anger that I’d come to Darragh’s club without his knowing.
Suddenly, a hand wrapped around my waist from behind. I tried to scream, but another slammed over my mouth, cutting off my cry.
Jerked backward, my heels scraped the pavement as I was hauled into the mouth of a damp, pitch-black alley. I fought like a cornered animal, kicking and twisting. Then I was slammed into a brick wall. My head hit the masonry with a thud, igniting stars through my vision.
As I slumped against the wall, groaning in pain, a low, familiar chuckle echoed in the narrow space.
It was a sound from my nightmares.
“Long time no see, pretty girl...”
I looked up, my heart dropping to the floor as Brandon stood there, his smile dark and sadistic, leaving a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter thirty-five
Ingrid
Brandon’s grip was iron strong, pinning me against the rough stone wall. I pushed back—wild, uncoordinated movements through blind panic—but he only leaned more into me. A low chuckle vibrated against my collarbone.
“Didn’t think you’d be much of a fighter. Makes this more fun.” He groaned, the sound dripping with a dark, twisted amusement that made my stomach turn.
My breath hitched, coming in shallow gasps. “W-what do you want from me?” I asked. My voice was a whisper, barely audible over the distant thud of the club’s bass.
“I think it’s a bit obvious what I’ve always wanted from you, pretty girl.”
I froze as his hand began a slow, possessive crawl over my waist. When his fingers dug into my hip, tightening until it hurt, I winced and shook my head in a desperate plea.
“Please... Please let me go.”
“Already begging? We haven’t even gotten started,babydoll,” he murmured against my ear. His breath was hot, stinking of expensive bourbon. I tried to shove against his chest once again, but he was a mountain of muscle, towering over me.
I had known Brandon wasn’t a good man. Tristian wouldn’t have just laid into him for no reason. But I never imagined he would go this far.
