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She smiled. “I’m just his whore, a Participant with a warm throat to feed on while waiting on the likes of you, but hear me, bitch. He may take you as his own, but it changes nothing. I love him. I won’t give him up.”
“You can keep him, I just want to go home. Please, my heart belongs to another.”
“Not anymore and one final warning, you filthy Indian. If you hurt him, I’ll cut your heart out.” She pushed her forcefully from the door, slammed it tight and locked it.
Donja gasped, her fractured mind reeling. She fell to her knees, hands to her temples squeezing. “No!”
It was then that she remembered her engagement ring. She dropped her hand and eyed her empty finger. “Torin!”
A Date with the Devil
Forlorn but intent on escape, Donja searched her suite which was like a small cottage with adjoining rooms, but if an escape route existed, she couldn’t find it. Through the windows, which she discovered were sheets of solid glass she saw twelve men in coveralls and hoods standing guard. Her hopes plummeted as muffled sounds from the outside world leaked into the mansion as if to remind her that this opulent room was now her prison. She turned away, tears in her eyes, Torin in her mind and finding the bed, threw herself down and cried. Hours later, with the clock reading noon, she rose and set upon the task of once more exploring the suite, thoughts of escape still heavy in her mind. She discovered a huge walk-in closet fully stocked with gowns, heels, minis and lingerie. Seeing that it was all her exact size, she leaned upon the wall, with a hand to her brow.
How can this be happening?
She paced restlessly, gripping her flat, empty abdomen. Passing the bathroom, she slid her hand inside and found the light. It was large, dressed in lavender prints with white tiles and elegantly lit mirrors. She spied a paper cup dispenser and dashed for it. She leaned on the vanity drinking cup after cup of icy cold water hoping to stall her hunger. Without warning an intense wave of sweat-popping nausea sent the cup flying, water splashing the wall as she hugged the porcelain toilet, gagging. She threw up and then for the longest time just sat there, quivering. Finally, weak as a lamb, she grasped the vanity to pull herself up, but besieged by misery, she succumbed to tears, struggling for footing.
Goose bumps embellished her skin.
“Torin,” she sobbed, grasping her head, staggering for the door. She collapsed on the carpet just outside the bathroom door, the smell of vomit in her hair. She crawled on hands and knees back to the bathroom, wedged the stool from the makeup table under the door, then drew a steaming, hot bath. Hours later with the hot water dripping she rose to her feet. Hunger once more plagued her, painfully. She brushed her teeth, blow-dried her hair and then rummaged through the closet until she found a bright yellow dress, the least revealing she could find. She slipped into it, then added matching pumps to the ensemble. She glanced at her image in the floor-length mirror, stress evident in her eyes. She touched her prominent cheek bones and turned her head left and right.
I’m dying, these bastards are starving me…killing me.
She drank water, then fearing more nausea, tossed the cup. She turned to leave, accepting that escape from this suite was impossible. She caught her image in the mirror and paused, her hand on the light switch. Trixie’s words played in her mind, “carte blanche, his consort, lucky girl.” She smoothed the yellow dress.
Charm the devil, yes, that might work. Gain his trust, then run.
Back to the counter, she pinched her cheeks for a bit of color, applied mascara then added some lip gloss and sprayed perfume. She peered out the bathroom window overlooking a small garden.
Who am I fooling, even If I got out, which way to run? I have no idea where I am.
Torin’s image, like a ghostly presence, danced before her. She shuddered. Surely, he and Gage would come and stage a rescue. She blinked, reality settling upon her. In the mirror she locked eyes with her image. “It’s not gonna happen, Donja, so suck it up, face it. You’re on your own. He has no idea where you are.” She just stood there, staring as her own words cut to the bone.
A knock at the door forced a stark grimace. She returned to the bedroom. “Come in, she called out,” amazed that they would take the courtesy to knock.
The door knob clinked the sound of tumblers falling and then it creaked open. “Dinner is served,” Trixie said with a warm smile.
Donja’s eyes trailed to the clock atop the ornate table, 6:57 p.m. Shocked by the lateness of the hour, she turned back to Trixie who was smiling like an old friend.
My goodness. Aren’t you the perfect Jekyll and Hyde?
She tried to force a smile, knew damn well that she should, yet beleaguered by rage left over from their last encounter, she took a step forward, unable to control her tongue. “So, you’re going to offer me food? Is that before or after you knock the filthy Indian on her ass and cut out her heart?”
Trixie just stared. She swung the door wide and with a wave of her hand, gestured. “Your meal’s waiting.”
Donja took a breath, eyes locked on Trixie’s face and deduced that she was indeed, nothing short of a psychopath, actually—they all were. Second thinking her bitter approach and keenly aware that she was indeed starving, she forced a smile, though weak at best and headed for the door.
In the hallway, Donja waited while Trixie locked her door. Baffled, she cocked her head.
What the heck?
Trixie must have read her thoughts. “It’s just to prevent some rogue Iridescent from getting into your room, hiding and waiting in hopes of your Chippewa blood. Quite the rare one you are, my dear,” she chuckled, “and we must keep the Queen safe for his lips only.”
Donja shivered, but held her tongue. She followed behind Trixie who was dressed to kill in black stilettos and a shiny blue mini with half her derriere hanging out.
Donja’s stomach growled pitifully and Trixie flashed a saccharin smile. “Poor baby, you are hungry.”
Donja felt a wave of disgust, but she forced herself to return the smile, after all, the woman held power over her and at this moment in time, she had no intentions of rocking the boat. She followed behind as Trixie sashayed the hallway, taking the opportunity to survey the mansion in hopes of discovering a phone, an open door or an escape route. They passed several winding hallways and a large room with a big screen TV where six to eight men, whom she assumed were Iridescents, were lounging on leather furniture, lost in an action-packed movie.
