Page 96

SK Compound, Myanmar

Ithought it would be weeks before I saw Rodrigo Cardeñas again.

If I ever did.

To my surprise, it’s only a few days after the auction when the supervisor prods me with his rifle muzzle and tells me it’s time to glam up again.

“What about my friends?” I try not to sound fearful as he pushes me out of the office. “Don’t you need all of us?”

“No.” The man laughs unpleasantly. “This one special request. From special friend. He ask for you.”

Oh, fuck.

I want it to be Rodrigo.

I’m terrified it’s going to be Jacey.

“Hurry up.” The gun prods me again. The supervisors have been giving me hell ever since I stumbled out of the privateroom at Rodrigo’s side, clutching my dress around me and sniffing miserably.

That’s the thing about weak men. Once they find a victim, they can’t help but torture it. Weak men are excited by a beaten woman.

It’s sickening. It’s pathetic.

And right now, it’s fucking useful.

So long as they believe I’m beaten, I’m safe. When it comes to weak men, it’s defiance that is dangerous.

A victim, they will torture.

Strength, they will try to destroy completely.

It takes a real man to love strength.

A man like Dimitry.

I hold on to his face as I dress in the sequined, trashy dress they give me. My hands shake a little, but I breathe through it, forcing myself to focus. The truth is that from the moment I faced Rodrigo Cardeñas in that room, I’ve felt more alive than I have in years. I feel like I’ve found a piece of myself that has been asleep for so long I’d forgotten it existed.

The piece of myself who once stared down Juan Cardeñas in El Buen Pastor and negotiated her freedom.

What the fuck happened to that girl?I wonder as I slather on makeup in an attempt to cover the bruises from my last encounter with Rodrigo. Despite his initial hesitation, once he realized I wasn’t going to fight back, he took more than a little pleasure in turning my face to pulp. Several days later, I look like I’ve gone six rounds with Mike Tyson, and my face is more colorful than a paint palette. The makeup does little to hide the damage.

What happened to the Abby who was afraid of nothing? Who not only survived that Bogotá hellhole but bargained her way out of it?

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. About the fact that I was so determined to leave my mistakes behind that Iburied not only the experience, but the strength that enabled me to survive it.

I follow the guard into the commercial part of SK, my heart going like a trip-hammer.

But now I’m back in the middle of chaos. Back in the midst of the shitstorm my early mistakes created.

And admit it, Abby: you’ve never felt more fucking alive.

Bravado aside, I’m still desperately relieved when I’m shown into one of the private casino rooms and see Rodrigo sitting at the table.

“Ah.” His oily smile, as he takes in my battered appearance, is as sickening as ever and sends a chill through me despite our previous conversation. “Not so pretty as last time we met, is she?”

He addresses his comments to the triad guard in the room, who laughs obediently.

I keep my head down.