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Like me, she is a slave. Forced to work for them and prepare the women they sell. And what will happen to her if I escape? Even if I don’t kill her, I feel certain the guards wouldn’t let her live down her mistake. She would be beaten and killed.
And I can’t do that to an innocent woman.
I sigh and hold out my hand.
Still cautious, the woman steps forward, palm out, and I drop the razor into her hand.
Quickly, she retreats into the bathroom and stows it beneath the sink. When she returns, she looks more at ease, though still pained.
“I understand the instinct,” she says. “I know that you want to fight, but the rules here are different.”
“Fuck their rules,” I say calmly.
“I’m not talking about their rules,” she says. “Out in the world, fighting is surviving. But here? You have to lie low. You have to do what you are told not because they told you to, but because if you don’t, you’ll be worse off than you are now.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I say.
She steps closer to me, voice low, eyes nervous like she expects someone to be listening to us. I glance around the room as well, wondering if there are any cameras.
“You can’t escape if you can’t walk,” she says, leveling her gaze at me. “And that is what will happen if you try to fight your way out of here. The inn is too heavily guarded for you to have any chance, especially with nothing more than a razor blade.”
My face warms with embarrassment. It was a bad plan.
She walks past me and picks up a red dress that is laid out on the bed. It is tight and ruched on the sides with a deep V that is guaranteed to show off most of my chest. Next to it on the threadbare comforter is a black pair of lace panties.
I awkwardly get dressed, doing my best to keep the towel around me while I pull up the underwear. I’m not ashamed of my body, but I don’t like the fact that I have no choice about who sees it.
I suspect that, soon enough, I will have to get over that feeling. I won’t have any choice about a lot of things.
Once the underwear is on, the woman unzips the side of the dress and then holds it open like she wants me to step into it.
“I can do it myself,” I say gently, taking the dress from her.
She gives it to me and then moves against the wall.
The dress is skintight, but it fits. It isn’t uncomfortable or too tight in any area. It feels eerily like it was tailored with me in mind.
“How is this going to work?” I ask, pulling the zipper up my side.
“What?”
“The auction,” I say. “What is going to happen first?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not supposed to say. They will explain everything to you.”
“I’d rather you explain it,” I say earnestly. “I don’t trust them.”
She bites her lip and then tips her head to a pair of black stilettos on the floor. “Those are for you, too.”
I put the stilettos on and then sit back on the edge of the bed. Like I guessed when I walked into the room, it is lumpy. Though, if my guess is correct, I won’t be spending much time in here, anyway.
“Is there anything you can tell me?” I ask, fastening the buckle on my heel. “As much as possible, I want to know what to expect. I don’t want to be taken by surprise.”
She blinks, her eyes wide and nervous, and rubs her fingers anxiously across the hem of her shirt. “The red dress means you are more expensive.”
“More expensive than the other women?” I ask.
She nods. “Red indicates that you come from better stock.”
