by E. S. Carter
I’ve had to hide it to survive, I said only to myself, a brief admission inside my head, but to Faye I said nothing. Should I have thanked her for pointing out how well I conceal my truth?
“The tattoo on your chest,” she spoke plainly, straight and to the point. “You belonged to The Kingdom.” It wasn’t a question.
“I did,” I answered anyway, the brand across the fleshy curve of my breast itching to be touched and acknowledged, but I refrained.
“Then we need to talk.”
We talked long into the night. With each layer of my newly healed skin Faye seemed to peel back, she exposed more; more of me, more of what I endured, more of the filth that clung to my every pore. By the time she left me to think over her proposal, I was tender, raw and aching. But I was also resolved, and that is why I stand here now.
The air rushed out of the room through the open window before me, only to be sucked in with a sudden back draft when he entered Cole’s office. It hit me full force, billowing my hair from my shoulders and rushing over my exposed skin. His presence overrode that of everyone else. This bond I felt between us was more than the connection of rescuer and victim. It was a deeper pull that curled outwards from the pit of my belly, up through my chest and hammered at my ribcage demanding release. His animosity towards me did nothing to douse the flames of that need. This fire he started within me only intensified and spread. I wanted to burn him, to poke at his anger with fiery fingers and lure his fury towards me. It was stupid and foolish, but it also felt uncontrollable. It was this lack of control that scared me more than the man who currently had a knife at his brother’s throat. I heard the words spoken, and felt the rift crack through the room, but my mind was already set. My decision made in a small, simple room in the black of night. An agreement between two scarred but undefeated women in a promise of retribution.
I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that Faye had come to me of her own accord. Obviously, her husband hoped for my compliance, but what we shared in the quiet of the night was a kinship; a sisterhood of darkness that went beyond the machinations of any of the men in this room.
“Can I speak with you alone?”
My question needed no name attached, every person here knew its direction.
“I don’t think…” Cole began, his sentence cut off by the savage and anger laden words of the man who, moments ago had threatened to carve out his jugular.
“Leave us.”
Nobody moved, and I forced my breathing to stay calm. Not because I feared he would hurt me if we were left alone, but because I anticipated even the smallest speck of privacy with Grim.
I heard Cole’s brother Luke step forward and inhale a quiet breath as if to speak.
“I said fucking leave,” Grim gritted out through teeth clenched so tightly I can hear the harsh grinding of bone against bone.
Then we are alone.
The saved girl and the killer.
The assassin and his trophy.
Grim and Calliah.
All those statements sound true except the final one, and as the door closes behind the last person to leave I turn to face him, the words leaving my mouth before he raises his eyes to look at me.
“What is your proper name?”
I feel the whiplash of his eyes as they snap towards my face. My question unexpected and seemingly irrelevant has caught him off guard.
“Grim,” he finally answers, all anger leeched from his words.
“That’s not the name your mother gave you. It’s one you’ve chosen.”
His breath is hot on my face when with two long strides he’s on me, above me, staring down at me in a similar position to the one he adopted at the water yesterday.
“My mother gave me nothing, I earned my name, it belongs to me.”
And just like our encounter yesterday, I am not afraid at his blatant attempt at intimidation.
I close my eyes and tilt my chin towards him, his six foot two frame dwarfing my five-four.
“It doesn’t suit you,” I whisper, our faces so close that I know he can feel my words across his skin.
His stance changes, the ripples in the air around us alerting me to his ramrod straight posture, the loss of his breath on my face telling me he’s straightened to his full height.
“Is that right, sweetheart?” he breathes quietly, the endearment harsh like a curse, not an adulation. “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t give a shit what you think or what you want. You’ll be ready by dawn, and you’ll do everything I say.” He steps back and inhales deeply, the steel in his voice impenetrable. “You wouldn’t want me to regret saving you.”
Then he was gone. The door slamming shut with a reverberating bang.
I turn once more to face the open window. My eyes open wide to the bright morning sun and my thoughts with the man who just left this room. I should be curling up in a ball on the narrow bed in my stark and empty room. I should be running far from this place and the plan I’ve helped set in motion. I should be afraid to return to the world that stole my entire life. But I’m not because I know that no matter what, from here on out, I am protected. I know the man who just spoke to me like I was nothing more than a cockroach under the heel of his boot, would give up his life to save mine.
How do I know?
Because I feel him outside this room, leaning up against the door, his hands clenched at his sides wanting more than anything to tie me up and hide me away from the monstrous things to come.
He also knows that what has been decided cannot be undone.
He needs me for more than just a key to The Kingdom, and that knowledge petrifies him.
Grim
“With Miller’s ring on your finger and Calliah at your side, it’s unlikely that you’ll get questioned upon entry. She knows how to dress, how to act and her tattoo will be on display so nobody there will think twice about the fact that you’re her new owner.”
I make one last futile attempt at jamming the ring on my much larger pinky finger, yet I can still only get it down as far as my first knuckle.
“Tattoo, what tattoo?” I all but growl as the thick, gold signet ring refuses to pass over the knot in my finger.
Cole’s lack of response has me lifting my head up from my task, and I tilt my face to the side, widening my eyes as if to say, ‘I’m waiting.’
Confusion mars his usually stoic face, and for a moment he looks genuinely speechless. That’s a first.
With wary eyes, he finally replies, “You mean to tell me you rescued that girl, saw her naked and defiled and never once saw the tattoo across her left breast?”
My mind scans through a slideshow of images – her face slack and deathly underneath Forester, her iridescent eyes staring through me, never at me, her body encased in wet, white cotton. The arch of her back as she stood in front of the open window this morning, her long hair dyed from white blonde to almost black. No tattoo.
Anger at myself for not paying attention, for not knowing the importance of this mark and for my complete lack of alertness when I’m around Calliah pulses against the inside of my head, and it takes everything in me to force out a negative response.
“No.” The single word like a gunshot to my ears.
Cole doesn’t blanch at my grunted and obviously strained reply. Instead, he continues to tell me about the brand that runs across her breast; a crown followed by her five-digit identification number.
“It appears to be a combination of the way the Nazis initially branded the Jews in Auschwitz and a popular trafficking brand. Many pimps across the world mark their sex-slaves with a crown and usually their name, but The Kingdom uses a crown made up of the letter K.”
He pauses to let that information sink in before continuing, “Our intelligence suggests that this organisation sprang up from the remains of a sex-ring that dates to World War One. It grew and thrived by going from country to country, picking up the weak and displaced. Men, women, children, all sucked up into a void that has grown exponentially in
to a multi-billion-dollar organisation that trades in one thing and one thing only. Humans.”
I huff out an ironic laugh, “Sounds like they put my parent’s farm to shame.”
Cole’s face turns to stone. “It’s five times the size of the Renshaw operation.”
“And The Red Order knew nothing about this?” Disbelief is evident in my question.
His expression hardens further. “We knew nothing about this, The Red Order, on the other hand, has a majority stake.”
Fuck.
“It operates autonomously and has its own Pyramid. All that gets funnelled through The Red Order is the money. Once it’s clean, the fifty-one percent stake gets removed and fills our coffers, and the balance gets redistributed to The Kingdom’s hierarchy. This part is entirely legal and above board as one of our many offshore investment companies called Regno. The Latin for…”
“Kingdom. The Motherfuckers,” is my cursed response to this new information. I know the workings of The Red Order; I’ve seen how far and wide its tentacles spread, but when Cole killed Alec Craven - his father-in-law, boss and the leader of this underground organisation that Cole now rules - he vowed to destroy all those involved in sex-trafficking. The fact that this huge organisation which brings in millions got missed is bound to be chaffing him as much as it is me.
“What are the repercussions to ending these fuckers?” Not that I give a fuck about fallout, that’s Cole and Luke’s job to rein in The Red Order, but I need to know if any of this will blowback on my part in The Kingdom’s annihilation.
Cole blinks once before darkness passes over him and his eyes glitter dangerously. “Let me worry about repercussions, and you concentrate on the task at hand. Luke is waiting for you in the garage. He’s head of your backup team, but initially, you’ll be in this alone. Just you and Calliah. You good with that?”
No.
“Good is subjective. I’ll do what’s needed.” I’ll kill them all.
He stares at me a beat before giving me a single nod.
I want to stand here and argue my case, to demand Calliah stays, but that decision, like most of the major ones in my life, was made for me. Now I just need to ensure that no matter what, no matter how many hearts I carve out or how many throats I cut, she gets to return here without a single hair on her head harmed.
I leave without saying any of that and head to the back corridors that lead to the garage.
Luke is briefing a small team of men when I enter the garage. The group made up of mercenaries, ex-black ops, and killers for hire, only these killers belong solely to The Red Order.
When he senses my presence behind him, he dismisses his men and beckons me into the bare, concrete space.
We call this the garage, but it’s never stored cars. It’s more like an armoury, though unless you knew where to look, all you’d see were bare concrete walls and floor. The armoury is locked away in a hidden doorway, the secret space filled with racks upon racks of weapons and explosives, enough to stage a coup in a small country.
“Grim,” he acknowledges as he leans back against the far wall, his stance relaxed, no sight of the monster that lurks behind his classically handsome façade. “I trust that Cole updated you.”
I take in his lean, muscular frame clad in an expensive, custom-made suit. Both Hunter brothers are head turners with their good looks, breeding and the air of power that surrounds them.
Where Cole is tall and built, with a mane of leonine hair, Luke is dark, refined, and effortlessly handsome, like a male model and not a cold-blooded killer. I’m sure his clean-cut good looks have fooled plenty, but I can see his monster always prowling below the surface, teeth bared, ready to rip out your throat.
“He’s given me the background info and basic plan. Told me I’m on my own for this one, just the way I like it.”
“We’ll be monitoring you both and near enough to bail you out if shit goes south.”
‘If shit goes south’, he said, but what I heard was ‘if you fuck up.’
“I won’t need you,” I state firmly, gaining raised brows and a small smirk from Luke. But Calliah might, whispers across the inside of my brain, so I temper my following words and add, “But I appreciate the backup.”
Luke can see my grudging willingness for what it is. Desperation. He already knows she is more than a trophy, more than the spoils of a prized kill and I hate being unable to conceal her worth.
When a person, even one you trust, knows what you treasure, it becomes a weakness, a soft spot to exploit. Having never had this chink in my armour before, I didn’t know what to do about it, but I sure as hell wouldn’t let Calliah pay the price for my new flaw.
“Alright then, let’s go over the finer details.” Luke is giving me an out. He could prod and poke at my near admittance of Calliah’s worth, but he doesn’t. Instead, we go over the plan until we are both content with its success.
“I’ll see you at dawn, brother,” Luke’s large, perfectly manicured fingers squeeze my shoulder as we wrap up, and I force myself to appreciate the gesture of solidarity. I have never questioned the Hunters or my loyalty to them, and I’m not about to start now, despite what happened earlier in Cole’s office. My hand is on the exit door when he stops me and adds, “This is our time, Grim. Not mine, not Cole’s, not yours, ours. Don’t let your feelings for a piece of overused pussy cloud your decision making.”
My knife was in my hand before I’d fully turned, but Luke was gone, the soft hiss of the concealed doorway the only indication of his departure.
I imagined him smiling to himself smugly as he made his way through the secret passageways. Luke would never compromise who he was for anyone except his brother or maybe me. To him, life was simple. Revenge, death, blood, and power were all that fuelled him; he and I so alike, yet so different. Never would I have put a woman above the importance of my brothers. Until her. This girl would be my undoing. I should have left her to die on Forester’s filth riddled floor.
Why didn’t I?
Calliah
The clingy dress, a mere scrap of fabric, sticks to my body like a second skin. My breasts are all but exposed, my nipples are only just covered, and the very top of my bottom is on show, framed by a deep drape of fabric at the back.
My tattooed brand is fully visible, sat high across my breast, the black numbers and red crown stark against my skin.
#17003
Damaris had been #17002. I guess The Kingdom procured us at the same time and judging by the fact we have names we remembered, we likely weren’t born there, yet I have no memories of before. Not one, not even when I dream.
No soft and hazy recollections of being loved by a mother or a father, no glimpses of a previous life where we both lived free and happy childhoods, no easy laughter or the comforting touches of a loved one. My earliest recollection is of us both curled up, scared and hungry on a cold cement floor. The wails and cries of other women and children echoing in the darkness. I remember my limbs shaking and my eyes sore with tears. I remember the bruises, the lacerations, the quick fists and heavy boots. I remember Damaris holding me with no one to hold her.
I think she was older than me but not by much, a year maybe two at the most. She was far wiser than me, though. She protected me where she could, and she comforted me when she couldn’t, until that one day when she was gone.
The first time someone owned us, it was brief, and we were used as basic household slaves by a drug lord. The reason he liked to use kids rather than adults is that he could fit more of us in a room and feed us less. I say this time was brief, when, in reality, I don’t know how long we were there; all I do know is that our next owner bought us only to beat us. That was our only function. Miniature humans to use as punch bags. Smaller kids than us died often. Their tiny bodies tossed out like trash. We survived, but barely, and that time, like many others to come seemed the longest. Again, I cannot say for sure how long he owned us because time wasn’t anything we could measure. It passed with the ball
of a fist, the strike of a kick or the sharp slice of a knife. It could have been days, but it could easily have been months or years. We grew smaller, not bigger and I now realise we only survived because we had each other. It was easier to endure when you were not alone. You lived, but only because you couldn’t bear to let your other half suffer without you.
More owners came and went, and I hadn’t even started my monthly bleeding when eventually we got sold to a man that used us only for our holes. During that time, we wished for the previous master who beat us. For two small girls, this was the ownership that broke us both. It was also the worst part of my pitiful life for another reason. Damaris, who had started her monthly bleeding, got pregnant, and then she was gone.
My last memory of my sister was having her small, naked body, painfully skinny except for the slight swelling at her belly, get dragged from my arms by two of the master’s men.
She never came back.
I grew bold with desperation in her absence and begged and pleaded for my sister, giving my master an open view of my only weakness.
He took sick pleasure in twisting and manipulating me to take part in even more monstrous and depraved acts and to do so willingly. He made me perform for his perverted entertainment and forced me to beg for him and his men to use me in vile and horrifying ways.
And I did because Damaris was the only thing I had in this world and I needed her back.
My need for her made him hard. He got off on it. He abused me in ways my young mind refused to comprehend. The acts so abhorrent, I carved them from my head with blunt and cracked fingernails until parts of my mind were left in bloody chunks on the floor at my feet.
My body may have barely survived his ownership. My sanity did not.
I’m buckling the strap of my skyscraper heels when my bedroom door opens. I don’t need to lift my head to know who it is. He didn’t knock, doesn’t announce himself, yet I know it’s Grim. I know because all the fine hairs on my arms stand to attention as if he’s just dragged a fingertip over my skin. Even from ten feet away, I feel him as if he’s pressed up against me.
