to find a way out of here. If I don’t, my future is written in the leering stares of the guards I pass, and in the frank admiration from the guests when I’m near.
The guests.
How to describe those lecherous bastards? Too rich and too bored, they’d rather destroy a life than find a woman willing to stand by their side. They’re rotten people. Rotten men inside and out.
Reality is slowly settling in and I don’t like my options. My heart rattles around inside my ribcage. Spurred to restless agitation by yet another ransom demand.
“You may go.” With a flick of his wrist, I’m dismissed. Before I reach the doorway, he calls out. “Do not be late for dinner, my love. I expect you to be on time.”
“Yes, of course.” I take great care to be early to those hideous meals, but I was a minute late last night.
“My guests enjoy your company.”
I’m sure they do not. His guests make my stomach churn.
“You should relax in the spa this afternoon. You look stressed.” His brows pinch together, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he really was concerned about my mental state of mind.
He’s not. Benefield is a monster.
As for me, tension swirls on every breath and surges with chaotic energy in my veins. It knots between my shoulder blades and climbs up the back of my neck where it settles, making my head pound with the beginning of a migraine.
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
I hate the spa. It’s only ever used by the girls who are being put up for auction. Benefield wants them looking their best as he sells them to the highest bidder.
I’d refuse, but I know better than to upset my monstrous host.
As I make my way to the spa, I walk on pins and needles, doing everything in my power not to be noticed, which is silly.
Everybody notices me.
I’ve been singled out for special treatment, deference extended to me where it’s not for any of the other girls.
Unable to get over the feeling my fortune is shifting from bad to worse, I’m on edge and the fear I battle each and every day takes on a sharper edge.
It digs in and takes root.
I feel it in the air—a change coming—it swirls around me infesting the cloying humidity that thickens each breath. It lingers in the oppressive tropical heat and saps my strength.
I cross an extravagant courtyard, guard in tow. Landscaped to perfection, my surroundings display the opulence and power of the owner.
I’m a captive within a secret compound, hidden somewhere in the forests of a tropical paradise. I believe I’m in Colombia. At least that’s where the shipping container arrived.
The shipping container.
Thirteen of us endured a tortuous journey locked inside a cargo container. Opened once a day to provide meager rations of food and water, and to remove a foul bucket of waste, we survived only to endure what came next.
After making port in Colombia, half were loaded onto the back of one truck, and the rest were loaded onto the back of another. I have no idea what happened to the seven girls in that other truck, but I know what happened to the five who went with me.
We came here.
Over the next three weeks, those girls were tortured, trained, and forced to serve. They learned how to serve the needs of monstrous men and how to turn their anger, fear, and hatred, into docile obedience. One month later, they were sold and a new set of girls arrived.
This is how I measure the passing of time; each week a new shipment arrives, and a little piece inside of me dies.
The lingering effects of my summons throw my body into chaos. Adrenaline races around my body. My heart picks up its frantic pace, galloping around the inside of my chest as it feeds off my adrenaline-fueled fear. But while I may be shaking inside, outwardly I display the calm, cool demeanor of the socialite I was born and raised to become.
I hurry along, trying to ignore the beauty and elegance all around me. It’s all a lie.
Breezeways break up the thick walls and pull the eye away from the multi-leveled turrets manned day and night by diligent guards. Designed to keep slaves inside, and outsiders where they belong, it’s serves one purpose.
I’m locked inside a fortress. Wrought-iron gates give the illusion of decoration, but they are the bars of my prison.
Men with depraved tastes are entertained here. Tonight they’ll congregate in the banquet hall