“Asked you a question, bitch.”
I grit my teeth.
His eyes light up. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s almost always high—on something they call Breeze, a drug that Winter and his men manufacture and distribute—or if it’s simply because he likes it when I fight back.
Both, probably.
“You can stop counting,” Mickey tells me, almost gleefully. “No one’s coming for you. In fact, if they leave you to rot here much longer, the boss might just decide to give this cell to someone more worthwhile than some abandoned slut.”
Slut.If that’s what he calls me, it’s because that’s what he made me.
I swallow a lump in my throat. “You… you don’t know that.”
My voice sounds wrong, like it’s too rough to belong to a twenty-seven-year-old society girl. Then again, I don’t use it much anymore, and when Idospeak, Mickey takes it as a sign of personal victory.
“Sure I do. But that’s okay. If hope’s all you got to keep you warm at night, you might as well hold onto it until Winter finally lets me fuck you for real.”
I go absolutely still.
Over my head, the speaker crackles again. This time, Winter doesn’t say a thing, but he doesn’t have to. It’s a quick reminder to Mickey that he’s still expected to follow the rules… for now.
Being captured didn’t change my fate, it seems. For my entire life, my only worth was in my virginity. So long as the Order considered me ‘pure’, I was allowed to retain my status and hopefully end up the wife of an Owed. And though the corrupt guards in my prison cell have fondled me, touched me, stuck their hands in my pants and up my shirt, and forced me to pleasure them in ways I never have before, they’ve abided by the one rule: no one is allowed to fuck me vaginally.
Or, as he says it,no penetration.
Trust me. They don’t need to do that to make me feel dirty and worthless and… fuck it…Used.
Like now. Remembering that Winter is watching, Mickey lets go of my hair and pats my cheek. The touch is gentle enough, but it makes my skin crawl worse than any slap does because I know what’s about to happen.
And then, instead of reaching for his zipper, he pinches my jaw. “You still don’t get it, do you? You think being one of those Order girls means something.”
I swallow, but don’t say a damn word.
Mickey’s thumb drags beneath my lower lip. “Offering. That’s what they call you, right?”
My jaw locks, though I know that won’t save me.
“You rich assholes have the prettiest names for the ugliest shit.” Mickey keeps his gaze on me. “Winter told us all about it. How special you are. How valuable. How men pay good money for girls like you. Well. Notyou, Haven. No one wants you.”
Someone has to want me. Theyhaveto.
Don’t they?
My lips part, a sob stuck in my throat, and Mickey grabs my chin, wrenching my mouth open.
As he does, all I can think is:
Offerings are protected.
Offerings are treasured.
Offerings are cherished.
No, I think to myself.
Offerings are preserved.
Offerings only matter if they’re pure.
