“You bring product into my house looking like this?” a woman hisses sharply, drawing my eyes up. I’m standing with my back turned to a dirty full-length mirror, head cocked over my shoulder, and my shirt raised up as I observe the stitches on my back. Massive bruises mottle my skin, turning it into an ugly color.
Clearing my throat, I let my oversized, dingy shirt drop and turn to meet her gaze head-on.
In front of me is a beautiful woman, her face caked in make-up and skin doused in citrus perfume. A tight dress clings to her curves, and a pair of strappy heels give her Amazonian height.
Her outfit is not fit for this weather, but she looks as if she could walk through a blizzard barefoot and not bat an eye. She only appears to be in her mid-thirties, and while she’s beautiful, she looks tired—weathered. Walking alongside the devil will do that to you.
This must be Francesca.
And right now, she’s glaring at me, shooting daggers from her golden-brown eyes.
Shit. Here we go.
Rio shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t respond to her outraged question. And that small action tells me a lot. If you don’t have a valid reason for your mistake, keep your mouth shut. Maybe even if you do, still keep it shut.
Her eyes narrow and trail down my body as she walks towards me, checking me out. Determining how much money I could make her, most likely.
I’m grateful Rio found some clothes from another girl’s room, and that I’m not wearing the hospital gown anymore. I imagine her reaction would be far worse than it is now.
She stands before me, her strong perfume tickling my nose. I keep silent, watching her pinch the dirty, white shirt and lift it up. Her stare sharpens as she spots the ugly bruises coloring my torso. They’re everywhere, and I have a sickening feeling she’s going to make it her mission to find every single one.
She then circles me, a sharp gasp piercing the still air when she spots the two large gashes on my back.
“What did you do to her?” she snarls.
Rio keeps his eyes down on his black boots, specks of dried blood still on them.
“Car accident,” he answers shortly.
“Stupid. This is going to take weeks to heal. When can the stitches come out?”
He finally looks up, his dark brown eyes swirling with hate yet an apologetic expression on his face. It’s manufactured just for Francesca. He’s not fucking sorry at all.
“Dr. Garrison said four to six weeks.”
She hisses and lets the shirt drop, circling back around to face me.
“Is she on birth control?”
My brows furrow and I frown, wondering why she’s asking him and how the hell Rio would even know that.
“Garrison said she has the IUD.”
Tears begin to build, and it takes effort to keep them at bay. It makes me want to vomit that I was violated like that. I had no idea he checked, which means he did it while I was unconscious.
She hums, pleased by that, and finally address me directly. “Do you know who I am?”
It takes a few seconds to rein my emotions in, but I manage to swallow them down enough to answer her.
“Francesca,” I say confidently, inserting as much volume in my voice as possible. She doesn’t present herself as the type of person who’d appreciate mumbling.
That’s the good thing about being a writer, I suppose. I’ve built and crafted so many imaginary personalities that it doesn’t take much to figure out the ones in real life.
Francesca, here, has no patience and doesn’t tolerate insolence, laziness, or weakness. She exudes strength, and that’s what she expects in return. Not to be confused with defiance, of course.
She pops a manicured eyebrow up her forehead. “Yes,” she says. “That’s my name. But that’s not what I asked you.”
Frowning, my brows knit, unsure how to respond. Before I can figure it out, her long acrylic nails pinch my cheeks. I inhale sharply, the talons digging into my skin as she pulls my face into hers, a calm but menacing expression on her face.
“I am your madam. You will not speak, act or even think without my permission first, you understand me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, though the sound comes out garbled between my pinched lips. She pushes my face away harshly, causing me to lose my footing and land on my ass. A puff of air escapes me from the impact, followed by a whimper, and I screw my eyes shut as pain rackets up my spine.
These assholes don’t want the product bruised and bloody yet can’t keep their goddamn hands off me. Makes a whole lot of fucking sense.
I don’t need to be an expert in the skin trade to know that no one wants to eat a bruised apple. They want nice, shiny apples to sink their teeth into and rip apart themselves, piece by piece.
Francesca sniffs, peering down at me with disdain. Blowing out a slow breath, I meet her stare, working hard to keep even a hint of anger out of my eyes.
“Obedience is the number one thing I ask of you. I personally don’t like to administer drugs to keep the girls compliant. I like my girls lucid and in control as it makes for a better experience for our buyers. No one wants a drug-addicted whore who can barely keep her eyes straight and fist a cock properly. That means if you disobey me or fail to do as I instruct, you will be punished. Understood?”
I drop my eyes before she can see the emotion spit from them like grease in a hot skillet. Swallowing down the rock in my throat, I choke out, “Yes, ma’am.”
She makes a sound of aversion. “Never call me that. Reminds me of my mother,” she snaps, muttering the last part.
“How would you like me to address you?” I ask, finding the courage to look up and meet her eyes once more.
I know what I’d like to fucking call the evil bitch.
Rio chortles from the doorway but sobers when Francesca shoots a pointed look over her shoulder.
She trains her narrowed gaze on me, seeming to contemplate something.
“Just call me Francesca,” she responds. “Rio here is going to implant a tracking device and tattoo your Slave ID. Everyone gets one, and they will only be covered once you have your master.”
My heart shrivels and dies the moment she mentions a tracking device. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but it sends a fresh dose of panic into my bloodstream, twisting my gut painfully. Tears begin to burn the backs of my eyes, the hopelessness deepening.
“Yes, Francesca,” I force out, my back hunching from the emotions circulating throughout my body, so potent that they nearly disintegrate my spine and send me crumbling to the floor at her feet.
As temporary as it is, she appears pleased and heads for the door, pausing to look Rio in the eyes and order, “Keep her sedated. We’ll let her heal for a week before she’s required to acclimate in the house and begin her lessons. You broke her, you fix her, so she will be your responsibility until further notice.”
His lips tighten, but he nods. Despite the fact that I was just told I’m going to be tagged like cattle, there’s a pinch of relief circulating throughout my body. The second she disappears, firmly shutting the door behind her, I get up as quickly as my broken body can handle and shuffle towards the bed, flopping down on it.
An angel and a devil rest on my shoulders; the soft one coaxing me to curl in a ball so I can shatter into tiny pieces, while the other yells at me to keep fighting—to not break down like all hope is lost.
Keep it together, little mouse. You’ll survive this. You will.
Steeling my spine, I force the tears back. I have at least a week before I’m thrust into the thick of what it truly means to be human trafficked. A week to be ignorant of the horrid things they do to girls here.
Rio grabs a black bag from atop the dresser next to me. I had noticed it when I first entered the room, and since then, I’ve treated it like a bag full of snakes. Seems I wasn’t far off in thinking so. The bite of a python would feel no different than being permanently branded.
Holding my breath, I eye him closely as he approaches me, his weight compressing the edge of the lumpy mattress. Slowly, he unzips it, the sound tearing through my nerves as it does the bag. Next, he pulls out a small tattoo gun, ink, and what looks similar to a piercing gun but… not.
“Tracker first,” he announces, holding up the torture device. He grabs a tiny microchip from the bag, inserts it into the gun, and then twirls his finger, signaling for me to turn.
Apprehensively, I face away from him, shivering when I feel his fingers brush across the nape of my neck as he gathers my hair to the side.
“It’ll hurt,” he warns a second before a sharp stabbing pain pierces my neck. I yelp, wincing, two seconds away from whirling around and slapping the shit out of him. My vision blurs with tears, but I can’t tell if it’s from the pain or because I have a tracking device inside my body.
I turn back around, shooting him a nasty look to cover up the fact that I’m on the verge of crying. He ignores it, opening a new needle and preparing for the tattoo.
“Where’s this one going?”
“On the wrist.”
I rear back when he lifts his hands towards my arm, attempting to stall. “Do you do this often?”
“Yes. Now how about you make this as painless as possible for both of us and let me see that pretty little hand.”
Tightening my lips, I don’t resist when he grasps my wrist in a surprisingly gentle hold, coaxing me to lie my arm on his jean-clad thigh. Tears settle in along the ridge of my lids as the buzz of the tattoo gun vibrates against my flesh, followed by the bite of the needle.
“Did you do your own tattoos?” I ask, though I don’t really care. I’m searching for anything to distract me from what he’s doing.
“No,” he answers shortly.
“How many do you have?”
He glances at me. “A lot.”
“This is my first one,” I whisper. “Do any of yours mean anything?”
Another glance, this one saturated with a little more irritation.
“Some do,” he concedes.
I stay quiet for a beat. “But none of them are brands, are they?”
This time when he looks at me, the emotion in his gaze is indecipherable. He doesn’t respond, and I take that for an answer in itself.
The tattoo only takes a few minutes, though I’m sure his lines are uneven from my trembling.
When he finishes, the first tear falls, and I quickly swat it away. If he notices, he doesn’t make it known.
Packing up his tools, he straightens and stares down at me. I can’t read the emotion in his eyes, but I don’t think I care to, anyway.
“How are you going to sedate me?” I ask, picking at a loose thread on the army green blanket. My neck and wrist burn, and all I want to do is fade away.
Is that weak? Would Zade be disappointed if he knew I was eager to fall into a pit of unconsciousness instead of clawing my way out of here?
You need to be at full strength, I soothe myself. I’m sure there is plenty I should be doing regardless of my physical state. Learning patterns, listening for anything that could help me, but I’m too fucking tired, and my body is steadily shutting down anyway.
He shrugs, a strange glimmer sparkling in his dark eyes. “Pills. But that’s not what you should be concerned about.”
Rio steps toward me again, his boots echoing on the floor until his knees brush the white sheet. He bends at the waist, his lips scarcely brushing across my cheek while hot breath fans against the shell of my ear.
“Better hope the men here don’t come in for an easy meal,” he whispers, eliciting a cold chill.
My throat dries and clogs with a pool of emotions. Mainly disgust and anger, but also terror. The thought of men taking advantage of my body while I’m out cold is sickening. My stomach twists in response, and it takes all of my self-control to hold back the hot tears in my eyes.
“Francesca would let that happen?” I force out, my voice hoarse and strained. He retreats an inch, watching my expression closely. I stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his soulless gaze.
“She wouldn’t know.” He pauses, a vicious grin tipping up the corners of his lips. “And neither would you.”
I hold tightly onto my composure, body shaking as my control threatens to slip. Another tear slips loose as his thumb brushes my bottom lip, prying it open and placing a white pill on my tongue.
“Swallow,” he orders quietly. I do, only if it means I won’t remember any of this.
“Good girl,” he praises. Fuck you.
Then, he brushes a finger down my spine lightly, leaving chills in his wake.
“Don’t worry, princess, maybe I’ll be taking good care of these stitches when they come sniffing,” he murmurs, offering a shred of hope I refuse to cling to.
I snarl, and glare at him through blurred vision.
“And you’d be any better?” I hiss, challenging his morals. They’re as obscure as frosted glass.
Slowly, he straightens his spine and shoots me a cryptic grin. “I guess you’ll never really know, will you?”
Turning, he walks out of the room. The second the door clicks shut, several more tears escape. And once those are set loose, a flood follows. I curl into a ball and slap a hand over my mouth right as a sob breaks free.
For an indiscernible amount of time, I crumble, weeping until my eyes swell and I have nothing left to give. And then slowly, I suck in deep breaths until I’ve pieced myself back together again. It’s messy, and some parts of me have been rearranged, but I’m no longer in ruins, and that’s the best I can do for now.
Wiping my eyes, I blow out a shaky breath and take inventory of my new room. The pill is beginning to set in, and coupled with my pity party, it’s hard to stay awake, but I haven’t gotten a second to take it in without someone breathing down my neck.
They assigned me a room at the back of the house, though a decent size. It’s sparse, the cramped space occupied by a mirror, a lumpy bed with a deflated pillow and scratchy blanket, a nightstand, and a dresser.
Just like the rest of the house, the wood creaks with every step, and I have a feeling I’m going to learn the exact spots that don’t make any noise.
On the bright side, there’s a nailed-shut window that provides a perfect view of the driveway, allowing me to see who comes in and out, and I don’t have to share a room with anyone.
Before Francesca showed up, Rio had informed me that five other girls are being groomed for auction. Francesca’s job is to mold us into proper sex slaves. Teach us how to act, how to look, and what not to do.
But what she really does is teach us how to survive.
I don’t see the fucking point in any of it.
The more compliant, obedient, and pleasant we are, the less likely we are to be needlessly abused, Rio claims. But there’s no doubt that the buyers will have a brutal, sadistic side, nor is there any doubt we’ll be on the receiving end of it, regardless of what perfect little pocket pussies we are.
They want us to feel as if there is no escape, so we might as well act right and take the good days with the bad. But that’s not surviving; that’s conforming.
It’s accepting that we will die here one day. Never to see our family or loved ones again. Never to experience freedom, laughter, and independence for the rest of our miserable lives. To never truly love and be loved.
But I won’t fucking accept it.
I’m going home—to Parsons Manor.
And to Zade.
A creak from beside my bed rouses me from a deep slumber I’ve been wading in for what feels like years. I startle awake in a cold sweat, disoriented, and confused when there’s nothing but blackness, and the soft white glow of the moonlight peeking through the window, the strands weak beneath the shadows.
Only a whisper of my escalated breath can be heard over the pounding in my chest.
It takes several seconds to remember where I am. And the moment it registers, the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Someone’s watching me.
Slowly, I sit up, my eyes adjusting to the darkness that’s pressing in around me. I turn my head to look out of the window, light rain pattering against it.
Lightning washes the old room in a flash of bright light, and I take the brief moment to get a good look around.
No one is in here—at least not that I can see.
But I feel the weight of eyes on me, searing the side of my face like a hot iron left on a silk dress.
“Who’s there?” I whisper. The words barely make it out, my throat underused and dry.
When no one answers, I look toward the nightstand and search for the markings on the side of the table. There are six tally marks, but with it being so dark outside, it has to be after midnight. I’m on day seven now.
Before I let the pill take ahold of me on my first day here, I scratched a line into the cheap, soft wood to mark the days, vowing to keep track any moment I awoke from my drugged slumber.
Rio’s always there when I wake up, ready to escort me to the restroom and shove soup and water down my throat before I’m knocked out again. He’s been putting the drugs in my food, and I know that I could refuse, but what’s the point? I’m not getting out of here if I’m starving and dehydrated. And I’ve found I don’t mind drinking the poison.
Too drugged to care, he watched me scratch a line in the wood on the second night, and for some unfathomable reason, he started tallying them for me when I told him the days are blurring.
He doesn’t say much, nor has he mentioned any men attempting to take advantage of me. If they tried, they certainly didn’t succeed considering I’d feel the evidence of it. I doubt any of them would bother with a bottle of lube.
So, whether it’s because he doesn’t care to inform me of his good deed or because no one has attempted it—I don’t know.
There’s another soft creak from my left. My eyes snap in the direction of the disturbance, right in the corner of my room.
‘Who are you?’ I ask, though the words don’t come out any better than the first time.
I hold my breath, waiting for a response. Several stilted seconds pass, and then just barely, I hear another low creak, as if someone shifted their weight from one foot to the other.
Something I noticed sometime after my arrival was that part of the plaster had been chipped away, revealing wooden bones beneath. Two planks are exposed, with a large enough gap between them to allow all kinds of bugs to creep in.
It made my skin crawl the moment I noticed it, but it was quickly forgotten when Rio came in with steaming soup in his hand.
“What do you want?” I call out.
Another flash of lightning, so quick that I barely have time to process what my eyes are seeing.
There—between the two wooden planks—is an eyeball. Wide and staring at me intently. Just as sudden as it came, the light flickers out, and the room is cloaked in shadows once more.
Jolting violently, I fall backward off the bed, landing painfully on my tailbone. I hardly feel it when panic has taken over. I’m not even capable of screaming for help, too lost in terror to do anything but desperately kick my feet, scrambling back toward the wall and away from the eye.
I plaster myself against it, chest heaving and heart racing. The rain outside grows stronger, droplets slamming into the window with a ferocity that rivals the beat of my heart.
My nails dig into the wood as another low creak breaks through the pounding in my ears.
Someone is in there. Can they see me now, tucked into the corner of the room?
Sucking in a deep breath, I hold it, waiting for something to happen. It feels as if my head is shoved into a guillotine, trapped in that heart-stopping moment of anticipation for when the blade drops.
I’m expecting a figure to break through the planks, a terrifying demon straight from a horror film, bent backwards on its hands and feet and crawling toward me at an unnatural speed.
Something I’d enjoy watching from behind a screen—safe and sound.
But I’m anything but safe in this place.
Another flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack of thunder.
I flinch, expecting to see the eye still staring at me from between the wood, but nothing is there.
A noise slips free from my throat, something between a wheeze and a laugh.
I’m going insane. I have to be.
Shakily, I climb to my feet, my knees nearly clacking together from my fried nerves. It’s enough to momentarily distract me from the lingering pain in my body.
I’m an idiot. Someone hiding in the walls is just preposterous. But then my smile slips with one sobering thought.
That girl from Satan’s Affair used to watch people from within the walls of the haunted houses before she killed them. But it can’t be her. Last I heard, she was still locked up.
There’s no one in the walls, Addie. You’re being crazy.
Right. I’m being crazy.
Determined to prove it to myself, I decide the only way to know for certain is to look. Tiptoeing to that spot in the corner, loud creaks emphasize each step. I haven’t learned any of the quiet spots yet—haven’t had a chance to.
It’d be less terrifying if I could flip on the light, but it’s too risky. I’m not willing to attract their attention and would rather take my chances with the lurker. That’s another sobering thought—realizing that I feel safer with the monster in the wall than I do with the ones that run this household.
But if I’m ever going to sleep again, drugs or not, then I need to be sure there’s no one hiding in there watching me sleep.
Another flash and I rush forward to investigate the depths behind the wooden boards.
Nothing is there, at least not that I can see. I’m not brave enough to put my eye right against the planks, but it’s enough to satisfy me right before I’m plunged back into darkness.
Slapping a hand on my chest, I breathe out another laugh, choppy and uneven.
As I’m making my way back to the bed, I step on an uneven spot, the wood shifting beneath me. I freeze and look down. Wiggling my foot, the wood shifts again, groaning in protest.
My curiosity piques, along with a spark of excitement. I crouch down as quickly as my body will allow me to, which is admittedly very fucking slow. While I’m healing from the car accident, I’m still just as achy from the lack of movement.
Planting my hands on the plank, I slide it as far down as it will go until there’s a gap.
I pick at the edge of the wood, hissing when my nail bends backward painfully, nearly tearing from my finger. Blood sprouts, but I ignore it, determined to see if anything is hiding in the floorboard.
Finally, I find purchase and manage to lift it high enough to lodge my finger beneath it. Carefully, I pop the wood out and stare down into a black abyss.
Blowing out a breath, I plunge my hand into the hole and feel around, cringing when my fingers brush across bug carcasses, and lord knows what else, but my disgust morphs into excitement when I bump into something solid.
I snatch it up and almost squeal when I see that it’s a journal.
No fucking way.
I just stare.
Finding Gigi’s journal inside a wall in Parsons Manor was unbelievable. Something that only happens in movies.
But finding another journal inside the floor?
Impossible. Fucking impossible.
But the evidence is in my hands. A cheap leather notebook, nowhere near as fancy as Gigi’s. The material is cracking and completely missing in some areas, yet it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Eyes wide, I open the journal and almost yip when I find several written entries inside.
I glance around the room, almost like I’m searching out for someone else to confirm that I’m staring at what I think I am.
It’s too dark to see anything now, so I stuff it back in and replace the wood, promising myself to read it later when I can see clearly. Then I stand, too excited to whine over the pain, and slip back into bed.
My heart is racing, partly from the euphoria of finding another journal and partly from disbelief.
She-Devil? If you did this… thank you.
I lie down, feeling slightly comforted that I now have something to cling onto while facing whatever is coming for me.
The storm raging outside lulls me back to sleep, and just as I’m slipping into consciousness, footsteps creak from within the wall, slowly retreating.
