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When we arrive back at the house, Francesca is standing at the tree line, hands clasped as she watches the hunters and prey emerge. She looks a little unhinged, most likely because one of her girls killed someone, but when her eyes find mine, they quickly take me in, checking for injuries. A subtle smile tips the corners of her pink lips when she doesn’t spot any, glee brightening her eyes. She may have a death on her hands, but the diamond still shines bright, I guess.
Glad to be of use, bitch.
Phoebe is already leaning against the back of the house, blood pouring from her wounds and staining her backside. They’ve already removed the arrows, and now they’re working to staunch the bleeding. This surprises me as much as it scares me, considering she killed a man tonight. I would’ve thought she’d never make it out of those woods alive.
She’s pale and looks delirious from the pain, but there’s a sereneness to her face that I’ve never seen before. She forced me into saving her, then turned around and saved me instead.
All I want to do is hug her tight and tell her that everything is going to be okay. Not because either of us believes she’s going to survive, but because once she’s gone, she’ll be in a better place than she is now.
Sydney comes running out, not a drop of blood in sight. I’m admittedly disappointed by that. Luckily, Gloria follows closely behind, pride shining in her eyes as she walks toward me, unscathed this time around. I begin to smile, but that small moment of elation quickly fizzles out when a large man emerges with Bethany slung over his shoulder, an arrow in her back. My eyes widen in horror, disgusted to see the arrow lodged deeply in her spine, blood soaking both her and the man who carries her.
It takes a monumental effort to keep the tears at bay, but I refuse to turn my head away from her. She doesn’t deserve for any of us to ignore her pain. Another man gathers Phoebe, and together they carry her and Bethany off.
My lip trembles, and I quickly suck it between my teeth and bite down before Francesca can spot it. I don’t know how Zade kept it together in situations like this. Maybe because he had the assurance he could kill them for it, and I… fuck, I’m so helpless.
I try to dissolve my face of any emotion, but I don’t know how successful I am when I’m watching two girls be carried off to a fate worse than death.
Sydney comes to stand beside me, purposely bumping into my shoulder, and Jillian and Gloria flank the other side of me. Francesca turns to us, a mix of pride and exhaustion shining through her made-up face.
“Only two, that’s wonderful news,” she says, even going as far as to clap her hands like a little sea otter, though it’s lackluster. I wonder if she’s going to be punished for what Phoebe did, too.
I’d love to be the one to do it. I’d take one of those arrows and stab her in the eye with it.
“As a reward, you ladies will get to pick dinner tonight. Whatever you want! McDonald’s even! Though, that stuff is horrendous for your bodies, but just this once should be okay.”
My mouth opens, but fury chokes my words tighter than a Victorian corset. In the end, I’m glad for it because only poison would’ve spewed from my mouth.
We survived the Culling, and we get fucking McDonald’s as a reward? It’s too stupid to be real.
Sydney saves me and jumps up and down excitedly. “My favorite!” she exclaims, nearly bursting my eardrum. I flinch from the pitch, flattening my lips and working to swallow down the venomous words.
I’m shaking.
“Sounds good, Francesca. Their fries are always the best,” Gloria says, her voice tight. One glance, and I can see she and Jillian are tense, struggling to keep their expressions pleasant.
“Wonderful, let’s go in and get you girls cleaned up. There will be celebrations tonight, and you’ll be expected to mingle with the guests. Make an impression and be respectful as they could be potential buyers.”
She turns on one foot and walks off with the standard unspoken expectation for us to follow. Sydney skips after her, but not before throwing a demented look over her shoulder, turning my blood into ice.
Whatever the fuck that look meant—it’s not good.
Nothing with Sydney is ever good.
“Suck it in tighter,” Francesca snaps from behind me.
“I’m trying,” I wheeze, right as she tugs on the strings for the thirtieth time. I ate the McDonald's. Of course, it didn't settle right because when has McDonald's ever made anyone feel better after eating it. And now, Francesca is intent on making it come right back up.
"I think it's tight enough," I groan.
Pretty sure I hear a rib crack in response. It feels cruel that I’m being forced to wear a corset with this dress, but men that operate within human trafficking rings are just as stereotypical as the men who blame sexual assault on the girls’ clothing. Tiny waists are revered, but probably not as much as not having a gag reflex when a dick is shoved down your throat.
Francesca ties the knot and then helps me slip the dress over my head, the same dress all of us are required to wear. A black, silky number that accentuates my curves—my now greatly exaggerated curves. The material ends right below my ass cheeks. A butterfly could flutter by, and my dress would fly up like it’s allergic to the winged creature.
&
nbsp; If I pass gas, it’s over.
Francesca runs her hands through my cinnamon tresses, observing me through the mirror. We're in the beauty room, the other girls putting on their makeup, already having gone through the same torture.
