by Olivia Ryann
“You don’t need to plead your case to me. The master has spoken.” He crosses his arms impatiently.
The master? My head is full of a thousand thoughts suddenly, trying to figure out who that could be.
Then it becomes clear who he’s talking about. The tall Mediterranean-looking man, with the grey eyes that pierce right through me. The man I’ve been calling Monster in my head.
I want to run. I want to scream. But somehow, I don’t think that either action will do much to help me. Not with the squadron of men staring me down.
Then something occurs to me.
“You’re here to guard me?” I ask, cocking my head.
The man looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to answer me or not. Finally, he just nods. “Yes.”
“Your master would probably be angry with you if anything happened to me,” I say, knowing that it’s a gamble. “I’m betting that you wouldn’t like what happens to you if he was to get angry.”
I catch the moment of shock in his eyes before he glowers at me again. “We have our instructions. Just because we can’t kill you doesn’t mean we won’t hurt you.”
Frustrated, I lash out. “I think you won’t do anything if I run.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he says, “I will beat you.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”
“Try us,” he threatens.
I stare at him, my pulse picking up. Then I turn and sprint away to the very bottom of the hill, following it as it meanders around the mansion.
I don’t get very far, not that I really expected to. In a flash, the men are after me, and it’s not long before their long legs catch up with my shorter ones. The man who was talking catches me around the waist with a kind of ease that speaks of honed skills.
He scoops me up in a squirming, indignant ball and carries me back to the house.
“No! Let me go! I don’t belong here!” I protest.
As soon as he reaches the brick stairwell, the second that he can, he allows me to tumble to the floor. I look up at him, wondering if the exercise even managed to wind him. I certainly am a mess, breathing hard, and now my knees are skinned on top of it all.
“Don’t do that,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Don’t make us chase you around. Stay in the house.”
I shove my long blonde hair out of my face, furious. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
He gives me a look. “That’s right, I don’t. The master tells you what to do. I just follow his orders. And you will too, if you know what is good for you.”
Standing up, I storm into the house. I don’t see them following me, but I can feel their eyes on me anyway. There is no doubt that they will trail me from a distance, none at all.
I steam, heading back up the staircase, retracing my steps. I need to think, to formulate a plan for my escape. I don’t know where Monster is, but my need to get away from here, from him, is nearly overwhelming.
I need time to plot and to cool my racing heart.
6
Katherine
I’m on the auction platform, staring out at an audience full of men in black face masks. Everything is fuzzy around the edges, dreamlike. Moving in slower motion than normal.
I’m led to the right spot by a man with work roughened hands, a man with a black face mask like the rest of the men looking at me.
Judging me.
Finding me wanting.
Thinking I’m lacking in one way or another.
They ogle me, their eyes greedy. As if they are trying to tell whether I am even worthwhile or not.
The auctioneer is calling something out, but I’m too fixed by my own private congregants to hear him. I feel their eyes on me, feel them probing. There is a current in this room, an energy that makes me jumpy.
I remind myself yet again that I’m not crazy; half the men in this room want to fuck me, the other half want something much darker from me.
My blood rushes through my ears, nearly deafening me. I make eye contact with one man, one man who stands in the back yet stands out from the rest of the crowd. I don’t know why he catches my attention, but the look in his eyes…
His glittering and dark eyes…
It’s madness perhaps, or mania. The look of someone who is very close to getting what he wants, and now he’s just impatiently waiting until it drops into his lap.
I drop my gaze, looking away with a shudder of fear. The drugs dull every sensation, but it seems as though that man stares at me so sharply that I can actually feel the blades sliding into my skin. It’s a very intense impression, in this blurry edged world.
While I am staring at the ground, there is a commotion. Then a gunshot, it’s sound so loud that I’m absolutely sure that my heart is going to gallop out of my chest. I hunch down, and there is some shouting between the men.
It’s only when I taste blood that I realize I have bitten my tongue. I glance up, frightened and shaking. The guard in his black mask begins to pull me away, dragging me when I don’t cooperate.
I am pulled back toward the back area, and then I change hands, yet another huge man in a black mask taking charge of me. He bundles me over toward the warehouse’s exit, toward that same man that I made eye contact with before.
I can almost smell the excitement pouring off of the manic man. He looks me up and down, his lips lifting in the ghost of a smile.
“I am your master now,” he says. His accent is thick, but his English perfect.
Then he pulls up a switchblade, and my heart begins to race.
No. Please god, no.
I think the words, but nothing comes out of my mouth. Instead, the huge man grabs me from behind, holding my arms back. My eyes widen as the other man steps up to me, smiling, and slices the flesh of my collarbone.
I shriek as the knife carves into my skin, blood rushing up to the surface and covering the knife.
Then I open my eyes, my mouth forming a silent scream. It takes a few heart pounding seconds for me to come awake fully, lying on my back in another room entirely. I stare at the royal blue ceiling, my heart racing, sweat cooling on my skin.
Where am I?
What am I doing here?
Where is my family?
Then it all comes rushing back to me at once. It wasn’t a dream, it was a memory.
I’m somewhere in South America.
I’m here because Monster bid for me, shot someone, and emerged victorious.
And I’ll never see any of my family again, because they sold me.
They sold me.
My eyes fill with tears, and I turn on my side, curling up in a ball of my own misery. A sob catches in my chest. For a minute I just let the tears come, breaking down and crying.
“What are you crying for, Fiore?”
I roll over in the bed, furiously wiping at my face. Monster stands in the doorway, filling up the space with his big frame, his head cocked. My first inclination is to ignore him, but right on the heels of that is another instinct.
Talk to him. At least he speaks to you, unlike everyone else in this house.
Well, everyone but the guard.
I sit up, sniffling and wary. I feel very vulnerable like this, sitting in the middle of the bed, with him looking at me with a patient expression. I’m willing to bet that patience only lass for a moment or two.
I lift my chin. “That’s not my name.”
He has the temerity to look disappointed. “I told you, Katherine Carolla is dead. I killed her. Strangled her to death with my bare hands.”
His accent is not quite Middle Eastern, and not quite Italian. I struggle to put a name to it. Yet another mystery.
I wrap my arms around myself, a small comfort. “I don’t care what you say.”
“No?” he asks, stepping into the room. He snaps his fingers, and a young woman comes in with a silver serving tray. She sets it down on the bed, then scurries back out of the room.
/> An appetizing aroma escapes from the plates on the tray, and my stomach growls. I clamber across the bed, reaching for the tray, but Monster clicks his tongue.
“Tsk, tsk. That food is for Fiore,” he says, sauntering over to my bed. He pulls the tray a few inches away from me.
I look at the tray, then look up at him. He’s clearly offering a trade of some kind. “What do you want?”
He gives me a long look. “I want you to call yourself by your new name. It’s as simple as that.”
“Fiore?” I ask, frowning. “You just want me to call myself that?”
He nods slowly, a little pucker forming in his brow. “It really is asking very little of you… for now.”
I grimace. “Fine.”
His eyebrows lift. “Fine? Fine what?”
I heave a sigh like he has asked me to do something challenging. “Fine, I’m Fiore. Whatever you want me to call myself.”
I reach for the tray, but he pulls it back. “No. Say it like you mean it.”
“What do you mean, like I mean it?” I ask, looking up at him.
He waves a hand. “Convince me that you mean your name is Fiore. Then you can eat. I would hurry, because the food is getting cold.”
My mouth pulls to the side as my stomach rumbles again. I glance at the tray of food, swallowing. He’s right about this one thing… he’s really not asking much.
I push aside the rebellious thoughts, the ones about how I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him. Food is more important than any thoughts of insurgency I might have.
I raise my chin and meet his eyes. “I am Fiore.”
He looks unsatisfied. “And what do you want, right now?”
I pull a face. “What do I want? I want to leave.”
He sits back with a sigh. “Don’t be tiresome. Do you want the food, or no?”
“I do.” I try not to sound reticent, but even to my ears it sounds pouty.
“All together,” he coaches. “Who are you and what do you want?”
I narrow my gaze at him. “I’m Fiore. I want this food.”
“This food?” he asks, uncovering one of the plates to reveal a beef stew. “You want what I brought here for you?”
“Yes!” I snap, glaring at him.
“All right,” he says, pushing the tray towards me. “Go ahead.”
There is no silverware on the tray, so I just go at the stew with my hands, trying to shovel as much into my mouth at once as possible. It’s still warm on my fingers, the salty goodness of beef and vegetables coating my tongue and throat.
Monster watches me eat with a trace of amusement.
“You’re disgusting,” he says casually, as though I would choose this on my own.
I don’t look at him. I focus on the food, on how amazing it tastes, at how good it feels to be filling my body with sustenance.
I see his hand dart out and remove the cover from another smaller plate, revealing a little dab of what looks like rice pudding. I glance at him for a second, unsure.
Why would he bring me dessert?
Then again, it is pointless to wonder why. Why does he keep me prisoner? Why did he bring me to Colombia? What does he plan to do with me?
These are all good questions, but ones without an answer.
While I finish the last bit of beef stew, he folds his hands in his lap, almost looking prayerful.
“You tried to escape yesterday in my absence,” he says mildly.
My eyes meet his, finding him strangely calm. I don’t say anything, I just lick my fingers clean. I look at the rice pudding, still hungry.
“You won’t do that again,” he says. “Or you will face severe consequences. Do you understand?”
He toys with the plate that the rice pudding is on. There is an awkward moment between us, until he speaks again.
“You can have the dessert, if you say that you understand.” His face is blank, emotionless.
I bite my lip for a second, then nod. “I understand.”
He moves his hand, and I immediately scoop up a bit of the gooey, sticky pudding. I put my fingers into my mouth, involuntarily moaning a little bit as the sweet pudding hits my taste buds. I close my eyes, taking a moment to savor it.
I swear, I’ve never tasted anything so good in my whole entire life.
“Your hair is dyed,” he notes.
I open my eyes to find him staring at me, at my hair. It’s creepy, like he’s cataloging me for a library collection or something. I swallow but don’t say anything back. He doesn’t really expect me to say anything, I assume.
“I don’t like anything fake or false on you. You don’t need pretense,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ll send someone to correct your hair.”
“What?” I say, my mouth still full of pudding.
He looks disgusted. “You’ll swallow your food before speaking.”
My cheeks heat with shame. “You have an awful lot of bullshit rules.”
He stands up, sweeping the entire heavy silver food tray off the bed with one hand. He glowers at me. “You should think twice before you speak, girl.”
“My name is Katherine!” I pop off, without really thinking.
The next thing I know, he’s pulling me off of the bed, grabbing me around the waist so hard that I hear something snap. I cry out, the sound strangled, and he grips my throat. My eyes widen as he gets right up close to my face, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my chin.
“Watch what you say to me,” he threatens, squeezing his hand that is on my throat. “I will fucking kill you, I swear to god.”
My hands fly up to try to pull his hand away, but he tosses me to the floor like a rag doll and storms out of the room. Only then do the tears come again, the shock wearing a little thin.
I made a mistake with him. My mistake was treating him as though we were playing by society’s rules, rules that say he would never be allowed to touch me. Never be allowed to hit a woman.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wincing at the pain in my side, and wipe tears from my eyes. He might’ve actually broken a rib.
I don’t know what I will do with him in the future, but I know one thing.
He is not to be trifled with.
7
Katherine
For the next few days, I’m mostly on my own. Meal trays arrive once a day, left outside my door with cheese, bread, and an apple. I leave the trays out in the hall when I’m done, and they’re ferried away again.
One of the older women comes into my room with a box of hair dye. After trying to talk to talk to her, and again being unsuccessful, I just let her dye my long blonde tresses. When she’s done, the color is pretty close to my natural color… as if I never even had highlights put in.
It’s like Monster is erasing little pieces of my past, bit by bit. I find that more depressing than anything.
In the rest of my time, I continue to explore my room. I luxuriate in taking a bath, washing a lot of the filth that I’ve been building up away. I soak in the bathtub until the water begins to turn my hands prune-y, until the bath turns cool.
I wander out of the bath to find the blood red dresses hanging on their rack, waiting for me to don them. Since there are no towels in my bathroom, I dry my hair on one of the dresses and my body on another.
I slip the sheath over my head, frustrated still at the lack of undergarments. Even a pair of basic cotton granny panties would be welcome at this point. There is no mirror in my room, just like there are no shoes for my feet or sheets for my bed.
Everything is just inconvenient, adding to the baseline fact that I’m in a strange place with strange people.
I refuse to let myself use the word kidnapped. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I try not to imagine how my life would be if I had run away from my home in New Orleans when Tony first warned me.
Much better not to think about it, and keep exploring instead.
When I’ve explored the bedroom in minute detail, I turn my attention
to memorizing the house and grounds. First the top two floors, where empty rooms echo strangely and the white sheets covering the odd pieces of furniture scattered like ghosts.
As I explore, I think about who I should try to contact. Not my family, obviously… even though I miss them a lot at times. I trusted them completely, when in hindsight they were always a little… weird and gross.
I can never go back to them, that much is clear.
So that leaves other people, like the police. Would the police in Columbia care about a kidnapped girl, though? Especially a foreigner? My inclination is no, they wouldn’t.
But that doesn’t rule out all types of police. The FBI or CIA could potentially be good contacts. Or maybe someone on the street here? A priest, a young woman weaving baskets, a farmer.
They would be good because they would have the ability to alert the proper authorities. I mull all the possibilities over as I go from room to room, not finding anything of great interest.
There are a few locked rooms at the end of one hall, but I can’t hear anything when I put my ear to their doors. Maybe these rooms are where Monster stays?
So I explore the bottom floor, including the kitchen and the laundry, both filled with the same obstinate and unhearing serving women. I snoop through both rooms without hesitation or shame. I refuse to cower or hide from them any more. They must have some inkling of my situation, they are just paid very well to close themselves off to me.
I save the mansion’s grounds for last, everything inside the wall. The miniature orchard below my window, the grand driveway ending in the most secure gates I’ve ever seen. The wall is quaint stone, but the gates are high, tall steel monstrosities surrounded by razor wire.
I have the same grim-faced security detail most of the time, including the man that grabbed me and dumped me back inside. They trail me silently wherever I go.
Something strikes me as I lead them through the cherry orchard. There is a sort of power in my position, because they don’t say anything or do anything as long as I am not trying to escape. They’re the same as the women in that way, not benevolent by any means, but not actively out to hurt me.
