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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, h

e 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.