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I scroll, finding myself looking at faces more than price tags, and that irritates the hell out of me too.
Who these people are shouldn’t matter. The amount I’d be able to put into my account is all I should care about.
The thrill I normally get when searching for a job is dulled somehow. It doesn’t carry the same rush I’m accustomed to.
The girls being sold on the dark web all look the same—beaten, broken, abused. If I had a heart, it would probably make me sad.
My fingers freeze on an image, my throat threatening to seize, and my earlier declaration of not having a heart is betrayed by the damn thing beginning to pound in my chest.
She’s there. Lauren. Glassy, barely opened eyes looking at the camera.
She looks worse than I’ve ever left her.
I no longer see that same fire, the defiance in her eyes.
It’s only been three days since I got back home.
Three days since she left me sleeping in the motel room across town.
Did she leave to go get coffee or something and get swiped from the street?
I’ve been agitated by the memories of her, and yet she’s been going through horrific things.
My anger grows as I take further stock of her.
There are bruises on her skin that I didn’t leave behind, and the sight of them enrages me. The fact that someone other than me thinks they can hurt her makes me fucking murderous.
Instinct tells me to throw my computer across the room, but logically that won’t help anyone.
I set about buying her, keying in my information, and waiting to be directed to a secure account.
I won’t make a payment for her past the deposit required, but as I make that transfer, my fingers ache for the feel of her throat under my hand.
If she thought I was rough when I hate fucked her before, it’s going to have nothing on what’s coming.
She had to have done this to herself. She’s too smart, too wily, to get abducted without letting it happen.
As I wait, I pace the room.
Other men touching her, tasting her,takingher.
I roar into the room, my fist striking the fucking wall.
Who the fuck do they think they are, touching what’s mine?
The thought should stop me in my tracks, but the adrenaline, the need to feel their blood on my hands, won’t allow it.
Mine.
I normally hate the word unless it has to do with money or the serenity I usually find at home.
Pacing isn’t helping. If anything, it’s only making me more annoyed, but there’s literally nothing I can fucking do until the sellers get back to me.
I have no fucking clue where she’s at. She could be a few miles from here or she could be in South America already.
I leave my office because the real chance of destroying my computer equipment is growing with each pass I make across the room.
I grab everything I’ll need for a longer trip, but I also get together a bag for a short trip, pulling out different forms of identification, weapons I’ll need, and the cash required for travel and her purchase.
