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Becca Jameson
Prologue
Three years ago…
Gemma wanted to die.
She squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself to suffer a heart attack or a stroke.
She’d done so every hour of every day for…how long had she been here? She’d lost track of the days. A week? Maybe.
The fight was running out of her. Part of her was already dead. Her soul. Her will to live.
She’d cried rivers. She’d begged and pleaded with the stranger holding her prisoner. Every time she did either of those things, her situation got worse.
Master J, as he insisted she call him, was a vile cruel excuse for a human being. She hoped he rotted in the fifteenth circle of hell when his day of reckoning came. She didn’t care that Dante hadn’t extended hell to fifteen circles. He should have.
Once again, she was alone in the dark in this godforsaken dank basement. She hadn’t seen daylight since she’d woken up scared, groggy, naked, and restrained to an uncomfortable cot.
God, how she wished she were currently restrained to that cot right now, legs forced open, arms secured above her head. Even if he wouldn’t give her the scratchy, disgusting, moldy blanket, she would be more comfortable than in her current situation.
She’d lost track of the number of times she’d been shoved into this kennel for punishment. Ten? Twelve?
Part of her couldn’t stop fighting Master J, disobeying his every order, trying to hold on to her humanity.
What Master J didn’t understand was that she didn’t want to live. She didn’t care if he strangled her or stabbed her to death as long as he put her out of her misery.
How long had she been in his dog kennel this time? It wasn’t big enough for a human, not even a small one like her. She felt like a contortionist every time she crawled into it. The only way she fit was on her hands and knees.
Simply shoving her into the kennel wasn’t enough for Master J though. He also secured her wrists and ankles to the four corners, which meant the only position she was capable of maintaining for hours on end was with her forearms flattened to the metal tray, her forehead resting against the cold metal between her arms, and her knees forced wide open. Her fully exposed ass was the highest part of her body even though she rested most of her weight on her folded legs.
Her face was tight from the stream of tears that had fallen for the first hour. She was dehydrated, and there were no more tears. She couldn’t even turn her head sideways to lower her cheek to the metal tray because she’d peed herself over an hour ago.
It was one thing to kneel in her own cold urine for hours on end, but she hadn’t reached the stage where she would want it in her mouth.
If she’d simply been kidnapped and brought to this living hell, she might have still had the will to survive. But that’s not what happened. Before she’d been taken from the compound where she’d lived with her father and every employee who resided on the estate, they had all been murdered in a raid.
Gemma had no one. No one was looking for her. No one cared she was gone. With the possible exception of the one man her father employed who hadn’t been home at the time of the raid.
Damon Albertini.
She drew in a breath and tried to imagine him in her mind. Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s how she’d thought of him for the past year since he’d come to work for her father in his inner circle.
Gemma had lusted after him absurdly. But she was twenty years old, and he was over thirty. It was unlikely he’d ever noticed her, or if he had, he’d surely thought she was a bratty little girl.
Gemma had no way of knowing if Damon was even aware she’d been kidnapped and not found among the dead. If he was smart, he hadn’t even returned to the compound to realize her absence.
It was foolish to think he was looking for her. Beyond foolish. Ludicrous. And yet, it was her only hope. The only thing that kept her from…from what? She didn’t even have the means to hang herself. Master J had cameras aimed at her from every corner of the basement, and he never left her unattended when she wasn’t restrained.
For the first several days, all Gemma had done was cry and beg and plead. She wasn’t sure if she was begging for her life or her death. It didn’t matter.
The sound of the basement door opening and closing at the top of the rough wooden steps made her suck in a breath. The return of Master J wasn’t necessarily a good sign. He might decide her punishment was over and let her out, but what awaited her outside the kennel wasn’t much better.
She held her breath as he stepped to the side of the kennel. Out of the corner of her eye she could make out his wide stance. He was in his usual black slacks and expensive dress shoes. If she was daring enough to lift her gaze up his body—which would add several hours to her punishment—she would find him in a starched white shirt, the top two buttons undone, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows as if dealing with her was dirty work.
The sound of more footsteps coming down the stairs was all she needed to know that once again Master J would be instructing other men to deal with her. Trainers. The men he’d hired to train her to be the best virginal sex slave alive, preparing her for auction.
Gemma’s arms were shaking. Her head hurt. Her toes were numb. The smell of her own urine was nauseating. She’d reached the point that whatever awaited her outside this kennel would be preferable, which meant she had to find a way to demonstrate some level of obedience so this fucking dog scum would let her out.
