Page 58 of At Your Mercy

2005.

My eyes flitted from line to line as my thumb worked to capture it all.

February 17th, February 17th, February 17th…

Ender Reintt, M, Caucasian - Europe, 18. Date of acquisition: February 24th, 2005. Belmont.

Apasra Ayutthaya, F, Asian - Thailand, 13. Date of acquisition: February 13th, 2005. Belmont.

“Where am I?” I asked under my breath, staring at the two names that should be sandwiching mine.

I was running out of time.

I clicked out of the 2005 directory, out of the ‘2000s’ folder, abandoning the rest of the names.

Just as I was about to give up, my hand trembling on the mouse, I saw it.

The title was:“Discarded.”

I opened it.

My face stared back at me, photo after photo. Ranging from the very first night to a few months ago.

Twenty years.

My eyes burned as I took it in. I skimmed past images of unspeakable acts, of hollow, dim eyes and bruises. Broken bones and broken spirits. Pictures of a younger version of me, covered in semen and urine. Pictures of me tied to the billiards table.

Pictures of me drenched in blood that wasn’t mine.

I stopped on the first image ever uploaded and gasped back a tortured sob.

And my heart broke all over again for that nine-year-old boy with utter despair and terror streaked across his face, splatters of blood decorating his skin. His wide, haunted eyes looked directly into the lens.

The bodies of my family can be seen in the background.

I squeezed my eyes shut, silent tears dripping down my face.

I wanted to smash the screen. To drag the file into the trash and wipe it out of existence. But if I deleted it, Elias would notice. He noticed everything when it came to me.

I forced my shaking hands to steady, and took picture after picture.

My throat burned, and I felt empty, like the boy in the basement had never existed at all.

I shut the screen off with a trembling finger and shoved myself out of the chair, dragging in a breath that rattled through my chest. My hands wouldn’t still. I looked around the room, and once I was sure there weren’t any signs of me left behind, I opened the door quietly and slipped into the hall.

The light seemed too bright, the murmur of voices unbearably loud. I walked, carefully and slowly, trying to make each step seem casual when it felt like my knees might give way at any second.

When I reentered the parlor, Elias looked up first. His smile was wolfish before his eyes narrowed.

“You took your time.” His gaze raked me over in the glittering mini dress. “But… worth the wait. Gorgeous, as always.”

The stylist beamed like an idiot, the weapons dealer polishing one of his bizarre contraptions on the couch. Their voices blurred into a low hum. All I could hear was the roar of my pulse in my ears.

I swallowed hard and managed a small smile, though my jaw ached from the effort. “Sorry. Guess I’m… not feeling great.”

Elias’s eyes sharpened immediately. He rose, crossing the space with unhurried precision, fingers brushing over my arm, my shoulder, sliding under my chin to tilt my face up to his. His touch burned, and I fought the urge to jerk away.

“Not feeling well?” His tone was too smooth, but steel lay beneath it. He didn’t like weakness.