Chapter 6

Tess

~Owl~

Three days ticked past.

Our little cell, the routine of food twice a day, and hushed conversations helped numb me into some sort of acceptance. My body was bruised in places I’d never seen and my rib ached.

After everything we’d been through, I loathed just sitting there.

Every passing hour, I grew angrier. Sitting on the moth-riddled bunk bed, I welcomed the heat of temper. I wanted something to happen. Regardless of what it was, waiting silently killed me.

Boredom itched worse than the new tattoo.

The flickering bulb clicked off, and I stared into blackness. A lot of my roommates drifted into vacancy—conversations few and desolate. I refused to partake.

I didn’t want to reminisce about the situation; I wanted to focus on a future less bleak. To try and keep hope alive in my heart, even as it was suffocated by anger and rage.

The moment I found a situation where I could run, I would. No hesitation. No second thoughts. I’d shoot and stab.

I’d kill to escape, and the knowledge I was ready to spill blood, shed a life, filled me with power.

Brax may have died fighting to save me. Now, it was my turn. I’d find him somehow. I’d find him and all of this would be nasty history.

A sliver of light, then a scuff echoed around the black catacomb of our prison. I froze beneath the musty sheets.

A footstep, then another.

My hands clenched, ready to pummel. It wasn’t a woman tiptoeing through the night, heading to the bucket in the corner. It was a jailer. I’d paid attention to their mannerisms and noises.

The last week taught me how to use all my senses.

I knew with horrible clarity—Leather Jacket had come for me.

A hand patted my thigh, creeping, trying to locate me in the darkness. I stiffened, letting him grope his way, biding time.

When a hand found my breast, I sucked in a breath. ~Not yet. Wait~. I pretended to be dead with terror, letting him think I wouldn’t fight. ~Idiot. ~My mouth watered to make him bleed.

Retribution was a fine thing.

Leather Jacket’s pungent breath wafted as he pressed one knee on the bed, moving to straddle me.

I burst upright.

My punch flew wild but connected with a hard jaw. My other fist landed where I wanted: right in his balls. Victory was righteous in my veins and I smiled.

He squealed and rolled off, landing with a thud on the floorboards. Cries and rustles erupted around the room. We’d never had an interloper in the night before.

Stupidly, we thought we were untouchable, our virtues kept for our new masters, whoever they would be.

I shot out of bed, kicking in the direction I thought Leather Jacket was. My foot connected but not hard enough. Hot hands grabbed my ankle, twisting.

I lost my balance and fell, landing in a heap half on top of him. My rib screamed, making me woozy.

Horrible groping trailed up my legs, reaching my hips, waist, and chest. I wriggled and kicked. “Get off me!” I bit his ear as he managed to haul himself on top.

He bellowed, and a flare of metallic rust filled my mouth. I’d drawn blood. It was a flag to a bull.

I went berserk. Everything I’d dealt with swarmed into cataclysmic rage. I screamed and attacked. Nails, teeth, knees, and elbows. I didn’t care where I struck, or where it landed.

I became nothing but claws and fangs.

Leather Jacket scooted away, leaving me fighting air.

“You want to rape me, you bastard?” My voice wavered with tears and violence. “Come and get me.”

Women shouted encouragement as I charged into nothing. I found Leather Jacket stumbling for the door. I caught him and grabbed greasy hair.

With strength I didn’t know I had, I slammed his nose against the wall.

He screeched as something crunched. Adrenaline drenched my limbs, turning me into a wet noodle, slippery, shaky, but I fought to stay strong. ~Stay vicious.~

The light bulb flared on, blinding.

Ignoring the burn of my retinas, I grabbed Leather Jacket’s finger and twisted with all my might. He struck out and punched me in the chest. My lungs collapsed; I couldn’t grab a breath.

The door wrenched open and a barrier of men marched in, pointing machine guns in my face. Sucking in what air I could, I jumped back, holding up my hands.

A trickle of blood ran from my temple and bruises added to bruises, but satisfaction was a welcome bloom when I looked at Leather Jacket.

His stringy hair was all over the place, a cut oozed on his cheekbone, and he heaved as if he’d been beaten by a gorilla.

He snarled,“~Vete a la mierda, puta.~” He nursed his finger and shoved aside a man with a gun, reaching for me.

I didn’t think. My body just reacted. I slapped him as hard as I could; my palm burned, but it was nothing compared to my happiness at the red handprint I painted on his cheek.

I’d caused grievous bodily harm and enjoyed it.

I was more dangerous than I thought.

He glared. “~Estás muerto~.”

I knew that word: die.

Before Leather Jacket could touch me, two men grabbed him, carting him out of the room. His voice raged as they disappeared.

The remaining men backed out of the room, pointing guns until the lock snapped securely.

I spun slowly in the center of the dungeon, looking wide-eyed at the women. Some held sheets to their throats, some gawked open-mouthed.

What did they see when they looked at me? A feral woman who’d signed her own death sentence, or a fierce warrior who’d saved herself from rape?

The pretty Asian girl with long, black hair, dropped her sheet and clapped.

“I’ve wanted to do that since they stole me from the nightclub with my friend,” her voice trembled, but the glint of fire in her eyes reminded me of myself. “We’ll be free again,” she added.

I stared, startled and silent, as a voluptuous black girl joined her clapping. One by one, the ladies clapped and smiles stretched across unhappy faces.

One by one, fire lit in their gaze.

One by one, they rallied, and I knew we wouldn’t be passive anymore.

We were right, and they were wrong.

Righteousness would set us free.

The next day, I was taken by rope leash to shower again. I’d learned to live with the pain in my joints and muscles—they reminded me of victory, not weakness. A badge of honor.

Once I was clean, Jagged Scar pulled me down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. This part of the house, factory, trafficker hotel—whatever it was—was different.

Ugly artwork graced the walls, and the room he shoved me into was a normal study. Glass windows with an industrial view, a desk, chairs, and a man reclining, stared at me.

He was as white as me with blond hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes—the same bright blue as Brax.

My heart twisted.

Jagged Scar forced me into a chair, but I never took my eyes off the man in a business suit.

“Who are you?” I rasped.

The man narrowed his eyes, placing palms on the desk. Jagged Scar retreated to lurk by the wall. Tingles of fear darted down my back, but I refused to bow to terror any longer.

I’d drawn blood—that counted for something.

“I’m the man who holds your fate in his hands.”

“I’m the only one who owns my fate. Not you. Not your guards. Not your sick operation. No one.”

He chuckled. “Ignacio was right. You’re a fighter.” He leaned forward, twirling a pen. “Being a fighter is what gets you killed. You should let go. Let us guide you.”

Ignacio? Was that Leather Jacket? I twitched in anger. “Let you guide me to my death by rape and mutilation?”

He leaned back as if I slapped him. “Stupid girl. If you behave, you will be sold to a gentleman who will treat you like a prized possession. Lavish attention on you. Buy you whatever you want.”

My mind ran wild. I was right. I was to be sold into sex slavery, into bondage.

“I am nobody’s possession.”

He shook his head, smiling. “Ah, but you’re wrong. You already are. Sold. Contracted. The deed is done.”

My heart tried to claw its way out of my throat, but I sat frozen, brave. “You won’t get away with this.”

He stood and threw a package into my lap. I caught it on reflex, horrified to find my photograph on a fake American passport, and papers written in Spanish.

“Already have, pretty girl.” He came to the front of the desk, stopping in front of me. He trailed fingertips along my cheek, just as gentle, just as adoring, as Brax used to. “What is your name?”

“You’re not worthy of my name,” I snarled, trying to bite his fingers.

He stepped back, laughing. “Well, I hope you are worthy of the client who bought you. I don’t do refunds.” He nodded at Jagged Scar, who’d snuck up behind me. “Do it.”

My world ended as hands smothered my face, pressing a rag reeking of chloroform against my nose and mouth.

I tried not to breathe, fought to get free, but the fumes stung my eyes, entering my bloodstream.

A fog descended, whispering and stealing.

Unconsciousness claimed me.