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He shrugs, a strange glimmer sparkling in his dark eyes. “Pills. But that’s not what you should be concerned about.”

Rio steps toward me again, his boots echoing on the floor until his knees brush the white sheet. He bends at the waist, his lips scarcely brushing across my cheek while hot breath fans against the shell of my ear.

“Better hope the men here don’t come in for an easy meal,” he whispers, eliciting a cold chill.

My throat dries and clogs with a pool of emotions. Mainly disgust and anger, but also terror. The thought of men taking advantage of my body while I’m out cold is sickening. My stomach twists in response, and it takes all of my self-control to hold back the hot tears in my eyes.

“Francesca would let that happen?” I force out, my voice hoarse and strained. He retreats an inch, watching my expression closely. I stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his soulless gaze.

“She wouldn’t know.” He pauses, a vicious grin tipping up the corners of his lips. “And neither would you.”

I hold tightly onto my composure, body shaking as my control threatens to slip. Another tear slips loose as his thumb brushes my bottom lip, prying it open and placing a white pill on my tongue.

“Swallow,” he orders quietly. I do, only if it means I won’t remember any of this.

“Good girl,” he praises. Fuck you.

Then, he brushes a finger down my spine lightly, leaving chills in his wake.

“Don’t worry, princess, maybe I’ll be taking good care of these stitches when they come sniffing,” he murmurs, offering a shred of hope I refuse to cling to.

I snarl, and glare at him through blurred vision.

“And you’d be any better?” I hiss, challenging his morals. They’re as obscure as frosted glass.

Slowly, he straightens his spine and shoots me a cryptic grin. “I guess you’ll never really know, will you?”

Turning, he walks out of the room. The second the door clicks shut, several more tears escape. And once those are set loose, a flood follows. I curl into a ball and slap a hand over my mouth right as a sob breaks free.

For an indiscernible amount of time, I crumble, weeping until my eyes swell and I have nothing left to give. And then slowly, I suck in deep breaths until I’ve pieced myself back together again. It’s messy, and some parts of me have been rearranged, but I’m no longer in ruins, and that’s the best I can do for now.

Wiping my eyes, I blow out a shaky breath and take inventory of my new room. The pill is beginning to set in, and coupled with my pity party, it’s hard to stay awake, but I haven’t gotten a second to take it in without someone breathing down my neck.

They assigned me a room at the back of the house, though a decent size. It’s sparse, the cramped space occupied by a mirror, a lumpy bed with a deflated pillow and scratchy blanket, a nightstand, and a dresser.

Just like the rest of the house, the wood creaks with every step, and I have a feeling I’m going to learn the exact spots that don’t make any noise.

On the bright side, there’s a nailed-shut window that provides a perfect view of the driveway, allowing me to see who comes in and out, and I don’t have to share a room with anyone.

Before Francesca showed up, Rio had informed me that five other girls are being groomed for auction. Francesca's job is to mold us into proper sex slaves. Teach us how to act, how to look, and what not to do.

But what she really does is teach us how to survive.

I don’t see the fucking point in any of it.

The more compliant, obedient, and pleasant we are, the less likely we are to be needlessly abused, Rio claims. But there’s no doubt that the buyers will have a brutal, sadistic side, nor is there any doubt we'll be on the receiving end of it, regardless of what perfect little pocket pussies we are.

They want us to feel as if there is no escape, so we might as well act right and take the good days with the bad. But that’s not surviving; that’s conforming.

It’s accepting that we will die here one day. Never to see our family or loved ones again. Never to experience freedom, laughter, and independence for the rest of our miserable lives. To never truly love and be loved.

But I won’t fucking accept it.

I’m going home—to Parsons Manor.

And to Zade.

A creak from beside my bed rouses me from a deep slumber I’ve been wading in for what feels like years. I startle awake in a cold sweat, disoriented, and confused when there's nothing but blackness, and the soft white glow of the moonlight peeking through the window, the strands weak beneath the shadows.