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He shakes his head. “We’re already over by ten. We don’t wanna risk a stop and search. She’ll be fine down there until collection. Should we proceed with . . . breaking her?” It’s how the lower ranks would do it as it’s how they’ve been taught to run things—make the women compliant by asserting authority, and once your men have taken their turn, shoot them up with heroin.
I scrub my face with my hands. Why does that thought make me sick when it comes to her? I shake my head. “No.”
He asks, “Will she go quietly?” I scoff. He’s seen her already, so he knows she won’t. “Maybe I should give her a hit this evening and then again tomorrow?” he suggests.
“I’ll do it,” I mutter. “Get me the stuff.” We don’t keep drugs in any of my houses. The police wouldn’t raid me, I have too much invested in their pockets, but I never risk it just in case. Maxim nods and heads out the office to arrange it.
I throw myself into work until a few hours later, when Maxim stops by to leave the foil package on my desk. I stare at it and, for the first time in my life, I think about the impact of what I’m about to do. “You want me to do it?” he asks, seeing my hesitation.
I snatch it up angrily. “Of course not.” He nods, handing me a sealed packet containing a syringe and a cigarette lighter.
I head to the basement, stopping outside the door and resting my head against it. “Derzhi menya sil’nym,” I murmur.Keep me strong. I take a deep breath and open the door.
Descending the stone steps, I spot Grace crouched in the corner, shivering uncontrollably. She looks up slightly, her hair hanging limply in her face, and I wonder when she last ate a good meal. I shake my head, clearing my concerns. I’m here to do a job before I ship her off to another country and sell her to men for sex.
Grace watches cautiously as I place the paraphernalia on the windowsill. I take the foil, opening it, then I take the lighter and flick the ignite button, watching as the orange flame dances beneath the foil to heat the contents. She watches without a word.
“Who was the thief to you?” I ask, concentrating on the bubbling liquid.
“My friend,” she whispers. Her voice is low and her throat hoarse. “He looked after me on the streets. Or maybe we looked after one another.”
“It’s his fault you’re down here,” I tell her.
“It’s your fault,” she replies. “You made the choice to take me.”
I place the foil down and pick up the syringe, taking it from the packet. “Why aren’t you on drugs?” I ask. Most of the women we pick up from the streets are taking something to get them through.
“I don’t drink or take drugs. I’m not an idiot.”
I place the cotton swab in the liquid and draw up the drug into the syringe. I hold it and flick the end, clearing the air bubbles from it. “What about you?” she asks, holding out her arm expectantly.
I frown, confused as to why she’d not bother to fight me. “Never,” I mutter, pulling a band from my pocket and crouching to wrap it around her arm as she watches. “You’re just going to accept it?” I ask.
“What choice do I have?” She’s right, there isn’t one. “One day, I’ll escape whatever hell you put me in and I’ll get clean. Then I’ll find you.”
I arch a brow, resisting the urge to smile. “And what will you do when you find me?”
“I’ll make you fall in love with me.”
I stare into her green eyes. Her answer was unexpected. “Why?” I ask.
“Because you need love.”
GRACE
I keep my breathing even as he watches me. He’s conflicted, I can see it in his eyes. He wants rid of me because I remind him of something or someone, but there’s a part of him fighting to keep me here, and that’s the part I have to appeal to if I want to survive this. I slowly run my tongue over my lower lip, and he follows the movement with hooded eyes. Typical man, easily distracted.
“Will it hurt?” I whisper, and he shakes his head slightly, trying to break the spell between us. “The needle?” I add. He inhales sharply, like he’s just remembered to breathe, then he wraps the rubber band around my upper arm and ties it tightly, pinching my skin. I wince, and for a second, I think he’s going to remove it, but instead, he rubs my arm where he intends to inject me. “Will I be addicted right away?” I ask, watching as he tries to find a vein.
“Stop talking,” he murmurs.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I like to know what’s happening . . . childhood trauma,” I say, shrugging. “I like to know the next steps.”
He sighs in irritation. “It depends,” he mutters, rubbing harder. “Some people get addicted right away, after one or two hits. Others take a while.”
I nod, watching as he stands to grab the needle. “And will I forget what’s happening to me?”
He frowns, crouching beside me again. “What do you mean?”
