The rope around my neck squeezed tight, and I clawed at my throat with broken nails and anxious fingers. “No!”
Another set of hands from an unknown person wrapped around my nakedness and half-dragged, half-carried me to the chair. Together, they threw me on the squeaky, blood-stained leather and Jagged Scar went behind, jerking the rope, making me lie down or choke.
Skin stuck to the leather, making sucking sounds along with my panicked breathing.
The person who’d helped throw me on the chair appeared above.
My heart squeezed with indignation. A woman—young, cruel, with a glossy curtain of black hair framing her face. Her lips lined with early smoker creases, black eyes as vacant as the men. A surgical mask hung from one ear, and rubber gloves sheathed her fingers.
Rage consumed me. She was a woman involved with trafficking women—a traitor to her own sex. “How can you, bitch? How can you be a part of this?”
Jagged Scar reached from behind, tapping my cheek in warning. The woman didn’t answer, but averted her eyes. Not from embarrassment, but to secure the leather straps around my forearms. Once secure, she spread my legs into the stirrups and secured my ankles, buckling them so tight the leather bit into my skin like fangs.
Mortification painted my cheeks at being so exposed, so defenceless. I hadn’t even fought.
Through the walls, a scream ripped fast and high, but shut off as quickly as it came. My eyes popped wide. Oh, my God, what was happening?
My breath rasped in the small space, rushed and ragged. The woman secured the mask around her mouth and tore open a sterile packet.
My eyes wanted to close, to avoid knowing what was in the plastic, but I couldn’t look away. I stared with sick fascination as she attached the needle to a pen-like contraption, adding a vial of black liquid.
What was that thing?
Jagged Scar grabbed another bottle and doused the underside of my wrist, pushing Brax’s bracelet further up my arm. My heart squeezed in painful loss. Brax. The bracelet was the only thing I had of him. They’d allowed me to keep it. Misplaced thankfulness overwhelmed, at least these bastards hadn’t stolen that, too.
Using a white piece of cotton, Jagged Scar dried my wrist, before nodding at the woman.
She bent over my arm, placing a carbon transfer she plucked from the table, sticking it to damp flesh. She smoothed it against my skin, making sure the image adhered before ripping it off, leaving a purplish outline of a barcode.
Discarding the transfer, she picked up the pen with the black vial and pressed a button. Whirring mechanical noise vibrated.
Shit, they were going to tattoo me! I’d never been inked before, never fell in love with an image enough to want it permanently on my skin, and I definitely didn’t want a barcode.
“Stop!”
Jagged Scar pressed his face close as the sharp nick of the tattoo gun tore into my flesh. Teeny, tiny teeth nipped and sawed.
“Accept that you are no longer a woman. You are merchandise. And merchandise must have a barcode for sale.”
I wanted to spit at him, but refrained. As degrading as it was to be treated like stock, I bit my lip and bore through it. I would get it lasered off as soon as I escaped.
The burn grew fiery hot as seconds turned into minutes.
I was no longer Tess. I was dollar signs.
Finally, the tattoo pen cut off with a snarl. I gasped as the woman smeared some sort of gel over it and wrapped my wrist in plastic.
The black lines looked obscene against my red, swollen skin. My first tattoo and it demoted me from dog to shelf produce. A disposable thing. An item. No more. No less.
My fight deflated, leaving under an avalanche of unhappiness. Every part hurt: my heart, body, and soul. I was sucked deep into the pit where snakes and monsters lived, wallowing in self-pity.
The woman pulled off her gloves and snapped a fresh pair on. She moved to the end of the table, positioning herself between my legs. She turned from tattoo artist to gynaecologist.
Oh, hell, this is too much.
I squeezed my eyes, rolling my head to the side. I willed myself to leave this place, to float and disappear, but her fingers touched and kept me anchored in despair.
She inspected between my legs for an eternity before finally patting my thigh like the good dog I was. I hadn’t barked or nipped. I’d let them own me with not so much as a whimper.
The woman unbuckled my legs, and I scissored them tight, locking my knees together.
Jagged Scar chuckled. “Keeping your legs together won’t save you. There are plenty of other places to violate.”
I gulped, and the clatter of the leather straps hitting the metal table sent goosebumps skittering.
Please, let this humiliating and degrading inspection be over.
I opened my mouth to ask to be released, but the crackle of another sterile packet sky-rocketed my panic.
The woman fumbled with something small before facing me with a cruel smile. The syringe glinted under the spot light. My heart raced. “No. I’ll behave. You don’t have to drug me. Please.”
The thought of living a permanent life in a drug haze terrified me more than the rest of it. The woman didn’t answer and I jerked, trying to get free from the restraints.
I couldn’t look away from the syringe, expecting her to inject whatever it was into my arm, but she didn’t go for that part of my body.
Her latex covered fingers swiped tangled hair off my neck, and stabbed the thick needle into soft flesh behind my ear.
I screamed as a hard bullet shot from the needle, stretching, maiming.
Withdrawing, she giggled, saying something in Spanish to Jagged Scar. She threw the syringe into a bin and picked up an iPhone-looking thing. Handing it to Jagged Scar, he waved it over the latest injury. My skin wouldn’t stop throbbing.
A sharp series of beeps filled the room.
“Working, and linked to the barcode,” Jagged Scar muttered.
No! They didn’t. All my courage and hope for escape was ruined. They’d not only branded me, they’d tagged me, too. Even if I did escape, they could fucking track me.
Tears rushed, desperate to be shed. I didn’t realize how much the thought of escape kept me going. Now, even that had been taken.
I gulped hard, trying to keep my eyes dry. Jagged Scar released my arms, went behind me, and dragged the rope from around my neck.
It took a while to understand I was free, and even longer for my sore body to move.
Jagged Scar helped me upright. I grimaced, holding my ribs, not caring my breasts were exposed.
I sniffed and tried to sit straighter, but settled for huddling with my eyes down cast. This was the worst day of my life. No, that was wrong. The worst day was the day they took me. When Brax was beaten and left to his fate. A sob bubbled but I swallowed it back. I couldn’t think about Brax, or the nightmare I lived now.
A brown paper bag appeared on my lap. Jagged Scar captured my chin, guiding me to look into his eyes. “Good girl. You give in to your future. Easier, yes?” He caressed my cheek—the first kind touch since I arrived in this hell. After the abuse from Leather Jacket, I wanted to be hugged, tended to. But that would never happen.
Keep fighting, Tess. Never stop fighting.
Heat seeped into my limbs, dispelling aches and bruises. Fighting was all I had left. I wouldn’t give in.
I glared at the woman who’d trapped me so completely with a brand and tag. “I hate you. One day, you will suffer as your victims suffer. One day, Karma will come and bite your ass.” I had no idea if my promise would come true, but I’d make it a life’s mission to bring the wrath of the law on their heads and save innocent women.
I hated them. I hated everything.
Jagged Scar huffed and stole the paper bag from my hands. Opening it, he grabbed the clothes and threw them at me. “Get dressed.”
I caught the items and slid gingerly off the chair. I pulled the brown sweater over my head, wincing a
nd gasping. The white knickers were next, followed by a pair of thigh-high socks. Nothing else.
They effectively dressed me as a doll. A broken doll with no worth.
But I was past caring about superficial things like wardrobes. The clothing offered protection, even if the thigh-high socks itched and the jumper wasn’t warm; at least I wasn’t nude.
The woman forced a hairbrush into my palm and I took it hesitantly. Was this it? Was I being moved?
I worked through my messy tangles before handing the brush back. My skin smelled of cheap soap and my hair was brittle with no conditioner, but I felt better. More prepared to face whatever came next.
My new tattoo itched beneath the bandage, and I wanted to rip it off to see the barcode in more detail. Could they scan me now? What details were imbedded in the mark?
They hadn’t asked any personal information. They didn’t care who I was. Only what I was becoming.
Something to be sold.
Chapter Six
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 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.
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 centre 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 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 honour.
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 ter
ror 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 crazy. 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.
Chapter Seven
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 255
