Page 29

29

LAVINIA

Time drags by at a horribly slow pace as I wait in my cell.

When a guard comes to give me a toilet break, I inquire about the auction to know when it starts, but as usual, he doesn’t speak to me.

Several hours seem to pass in stagnant, anxious loneliness.

It’s not until I’ve eaten my third meal of the day that a guard comes and takes me away to be prepared for the auction.

He brings me to the medical room, where the biker-looking guy named Dax straps me into the same chair where Dorin has given me electro “therapy” so many times.

He waxes my legs, my pussy, and my armpits, then flushes out my bowels, using a big, needle-less syringe that he sticks inside my ass to fill my stomach with water.

The whole process is not only painful, but humiliating in a way that scrapes away at my humanity.

Even so, it doesn’t compare to the aching grief lodged in my chest.

I thought I meant something to Dorin.

All the possessive words and eager efforts to heal me.

I thought he did it because he wanted me.

But at the end of the day, I was only a curious project.

A novelty to be explored until he lost interest.

When Dax is through with me, a guard comes to take me away again.

He brings me to one of the rooms where they usually wash me.

Instead of just letting me stand there, he strings me up by the arms, then hoses me down and washes me with a careless roughness I haven’t experienced before—the first sign that I’m no longer under Dorin’s protection.

Next, he takes me to a dressing room with five other girls, who all look like they’ve been through a hell much worse than the one I’ve endured.

The guard points to a pile of lingerie and orders us to find something that fits, then makes us do our hair and make-up.

Two of the girls are trembling and fighting back tears, scared to the bone.

The other three look numb—hollowed-out and broken, obeying on autopilot like robots.

I feel ungrateful as I watch them go through the motions that will surely bring them one step closer to their ultimate demise.

I shouldn’t have asked Dorin to sell me.

I’m not stupid; I know the men who will pay for women in a place like this are sadists and psychopaths.

And now I’m about to end up at the exact same place I fled from a little over a year ago.

I should have accepted Dorin’s offer to find me a good buyer.

It would have been a luxury none of the other girls here would ever even get close to.

But the thought of spending one more day with Dorin nearly makes me double over as a sharp pain tears through my insides.

Tears press behind my eyes, and it takes everything I have to hold them in as I add a little make-up to my eyes and comb out my hair.

Being around Dorin, knowing I can never belong to him is just too painful.

So this is the right choice.

This way, I get out of the padded cell and get a chance to complete what I couldn’t do the night Dorin found me.

If I’m complacent with the man who buys me, or just acting numb and broken like the other girls, he won’t think of me as a threat.

I’ll go along, and when the chance strikes, I’ll end my own life.

Once we’re all dressed and have done our hair and make-up, the guard herds us into a large room with red carpets on the floor, beautiful lavish paintings on the walls, and chandeliers in the ceiling.

Old-fashioned couches, upholstered chairs, and side tables with decanters and crystal glasses line the sides of the room, leaving the center empty.

Except for a raised podium.

I swallow hard as the guard herds us onto the long podium, his cane slicing through the air to snap at the girls who stumble in the impossibly high heels we’re forced to wear.

Then we just stand there, no one daring to move a finger as we wait.

A little while later, men start filing in, a few at a time.

They make themselves comfortable in the couches and chairs, chatting with each other while watching us hungrily, sipping amber liquor and red wine.

Most of them are dressed in tailored suits, reeking affluence and old money.

A few are wearing tracksuits, but their attitudes match the well-dressed men, their gazes cold and calculated, their postures arrogant and teeming with violence.

They’re just as rich, if not more, than the others, but just don’t care to show it.

I’m trying not to think about who would be worse to be sold to when a cold, familiar voice breaks into my consciousness.

As I turn my gaze toward the door, my world tilts and crashes.

Zoltan’s charming, cruel smile sends a slash of pain across my ribs.

My vision blackens as my memories take me straight back to that agonizing night when I left him.

I stagger in the tall heels as the earth shudders beneath me.

A sharp lick of fire across my thigh makes me cry out.

“Stand still,” the guard in front of me demands.

I rip my gaze away from Zoltan, gluing it to the podium, hoping he will somehow disappear.

Hoping it was just a cruel mirage.

But there’s no escaping this man.

No mirage.

He steps in front of me, and the sickeningly sweet scent of his cologne drags a wave of nausea up my throat.

“My, my, what do we have here?”

I don’t meet Zoltan’s eyes.

I tell myself it’s because I won’t grant him the satisfaction, but really, it’s because I’m spiraling.

Seeing that vile smile of his again will make me crumble to the ground in a fit of panic.

“I’d like to place a bid,” Zoltan says, gleeful victory rolling off him in thick waves.

Perforated brown oxfords, tailored slacks, and a black silk shirt appear before me as a man comes up beside him.

“Let me get a chance to show you all the merchandise before we start bidding.”

“I don’t care about the others. I want this one.”

Keeping my eyes on the ground, I see the yellow outline of a track suit as one of the other men comes up to the podium.

I feel his eyes raking across me as if to find out what’s so special about me.

“Five million,” Zoltan offers.

The man who seems to be leading the auction considers for a moment.

“Usually, I prefer to wait until I’ve presented all the girls and we start the biddings, but with this girl, I’m willing to make an exception.”

The man in the tracksuit rounds the podium and watches me from behind.

“Six million,” he cuts in, just as the auctioneer is about to agree to Zoltan’s offer.

“Ten,” Zoltan counters.

“Twelve,” the man behind me offers, and I sense he’s only doing this for the power of competition.

“Thirty million,” Zoltan says with finality.

“I’ll transfer the money immediately.”

The man in the track suit grunts.

“You’re crazy. No bitch is worth that kind of money.”

“Oh yes, this one is,” Zoltan says to himself, taking a cigar from his inner pocket and lighting it.

The puff of smoke elicits a sweet, cloying scent that sends me straight into a flashback of Zoltan pressing the burning butt onto my stomach—the searing pain as the embers melted my skin.

I want to scream as the burn seems to crackle in every one of my round scars.

It takes everything I have to remain upright.

“You have yourself a deal,” the man beside Zoltan says.

Throwing a quick glance up, I notice it’s the same one who settled Dorin and Dax’s argument about the punishment.

I’m trembling all over as the guard taps the cane against my ass, herding me off the podium.

I nearly fall, but Zoltan grabs me by the arm, keeping me upright.

It’s a mercy I don’t want.

Icy shivers roll across my skin, nausea twisting in my belly.

I want to pull away, but fear has me in a vise, stiff and frozen, only moving because I have to.

“Would you like any modifications to the girl?” the man in the black silk shirt asks.

“We have a wide range of possibilities. Tattoos, piercings, tailored leather gear. I can get you a list if you’d like some inspiration.”

Smoke puffs into the air as I feel Zoltan’s eyes raking up and down me.

“A tattoo doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” he muses.

“Maybe even four. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. Four tattoos to make sure she never forgets who she is.” His voice morphs into a snarl as he makes his decision.

“Perfect,” the auctioneer says.

“Let’s go into my office to handle the transaction. Meanwhile, one of my guards will take the girl back to her cell, and one of my men will handle your request first thing in the morning.”

“No,” Zoltan interrupts, digging his fingers deep into my skin as a guard comes up to take me.

“If you want to test your new acquisition tonight, I can have her strung up in one of our fine whipping rooms, so you can have some fun before settling in for the night.”

“I’m not leaving her out of my sight. I’m taking her home tonight. Get the tattoo artist ready now.”

The auctioneer seems to be considering before he takes his phone from his pocket and agrees.

“I’ll make it happen.”

While he leaves the room with his phone to his ear, Zoltan takes a piece of paper and a pen from his inner pocket, casting cruel glances at me as he scribbles down two words.

“This”—he holds the paper up in front of me—“is the mark you’ll bear for the rest of your miserable life. For as long as I allow you to live. Even if someone digs up your rotting corpse, they’ll be able to see who you belong to.”

I gulp as I read the two crude words.

Zoltan’s whore.

Sadistic glee makes Zoltan’s eyes light up as he steps around me, pointing at one arm at a time, my stomach, and my upper back.

“Here, here, here, and here,” he says as he goes.

“No matter where you look, you’ll see what you are.”

The world is spinning and black dots are creeping into my vision as the auctioneer returns.

I barely register his words as he says, “My tattoo guy will be down shortly. Anton will take you to his office.”

Zoltan grabs me with a bruising grip around my arm, hauling me down the corridors.

I hold my head down all the while, focusing on keeping my feet moving.

Everything inside me withers as he leans in close and says, “I had just given up on finding you and decided to get a replacement the easy way. Who would have thought. There you were, as if brought to me by the gods.”

My throat constricts, and I can’t suppress a whimper as the corridors close in and terror darkens my vision.

“That’s right, things are gonna get so much worse for you than if you had stayed.”

***

The guard leads us into the medical room and herds me into the gynecologist’s chair with all the straps.

Zoltan puts my legs into the stirrups and takes out his switchblade to cut off the lingerie.

Then he spends five minutes toying with my pussy lips with the knife.

I try to shut down and close in on myself, but Zoltan demands my attention on him.

“Look at me, slut,” he demands, and I’m too scared to disobey.

He lifts the knife to my stomach and drags the sharp tip across my flesh.

“In a short while, my name will be embedded into your skin, making sure you’ll never forget who you are. My whore. ” He pauses.

“Though, I could just carve the words into you instead.” Resting the tip of the knife on my stomach, he holds his finger to the butt as he considers.

I don’t move a muscle, don’t dare to breathe as gravity pulls the tip into my skin, breaking it, making warm blood seep out.

Removing the knife, he focuses on me again.

“No, a tattoo is much more clear, and I’ll have plenty of chances to carve your skin later on.” A wicked smile spreads across his immaculate features.

Most people would find him handsome—I once did—but I see him for what he is now.

A devil in disguise.

Zoltan turns as the door opens and Dax enters.

I nearly gasp when I see who he has with him.

The girl with the muzzle.

Despite everything, I manage a smile as she lifts her gaze from the floor.

Dax makes her kneel on a pillow by the desk, and her brows knit with worry as she keeps lifting her gaze, glancing at me.

I think she’s supposed to keep her head down, but she can’t quite manage as fear must be racking through her, knowing nothing good will come from the scenario unfolding before her.

I can only imagine being in her place.

I would be even more scared than I already am, knowing I was about to witness someone harm her without being able to do a thing about it.

“What do you want?” Dax asks Zoltan.

Zoltan hands him the paper with the crude words that I will carry to the grave.

Closing my eyes, I heave a heavy sigh.

I hoped to be able to die still belonging to myself.

But what difference does it make?

He’s already marked my whole body, just not in words and ink, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t take my mind before I get the chance to kill myself.

Opening my eyes, I force all the horror and humiliation back and focus on the only thing that matters right now.

It’s okay, I mouth to my friend, wanting to reassure her.

With her here, my fear for my own well-being has faded somewhat, the need to shelter her taking over.

She draws a heavy breath, her shoulders shaking as she exhales.

Closing my eyes softly, I give her a tiny nod to reinforce my silent words while Zoltan discusses the placement of the tattoos with Dax.

As I watch her sitting there, fearing for me—caring about me—I almost feel like everything will be okay.

Zoltan has always been reckless with his knives, letting them lie around, arrogant in his conviction that I wouldn’t cause him any harm.

I’m not sure if he’ll be quite as stupid now, knowing he can’t force my obedience with pretty promises and false hope anymore.

But I’m sure he’ll fuck up soon enough, and I’ll get to reclaim what’s mine—my life.

“You can go now,” Dax says, making me draw a relieved breath that chases some of the tension from my bones.

“I have what I need. She’ll be ready for you in an hour or so.”

Zoltan kills my relief immediately.

“I’m staying.”

“That’s an extra five grand,” Dax says as he starts preparing a tattoo gun.

“Fine,” Zoltan agrees.

Money never was an issue for him as long as he got his way.

Moving to stand by my head, Zoltan grabs a fistful of my hair while Dax turns to finish preparing the gun.

He seems to be keeping a close eye on the kneeling girl, who obediently keeps her head lowered as Dax faces her.

“Sit still,” he tells her just before turning back to Zoltan and me.

There’s a slight hint of worry in his expression, and I wonder if it has something to do with his girl.

When he lifts the strap that goes over my stomach, Zoltan says, “No, I’ll keep her still.” Popping his switchblade open, he presses it to my throat.

The edge grazes my skin with a warning that has me going achingly still.

“That’s gonna cost you another five grand,” Dax says, releasing the leather belt.

“Fuck no, I’ve already paid you people more than enough.”

With a shrug, Dax grabs the strap again.

“Fine,” Zoltan relents.

“Five grand extra.”

Dax steps back and turns to the side table, where he puts on gloves and prepares the ink.

He pauses a few times to study the girl with the muzzle, and I sense him considering something.

He takes the tattoo gun, about to begin, but puts it back down and goes to the door.

Sticking his head out, he calls out for someone to come and lend him a hand.

As Dax barks orders into the hall, Zoltan toys with the knife.

He slides it down my chest and stomach.

His arm is right at my face, his skin caressing my cheek with feigned intimacy as he moves the knife in a slow motion as if he’s caressing me with it.

As I stare at the blade, I realize this is my chance.

The knife is not my enemy.

It’s my friend.

I act quickly, biting down on his arm.

Hard.

The bloody taste of copper filling my mouth and the feeling of flesh breaking under my teeth almost make me retch, but I bite deeper as Zoltan roars and tries to pull his arm away.

It only takes a second for his hand to pop open and the knife to fall onto my stomach.

It slides toward the floor, but I snap my hand out and grab it, not caring that I catch the blade and cut my palm in the process.

Before Zoltan can recover and snatch the knife from me, I scramble off the table and back up, pressing the knife to my wrist.

I can do it, I can do it, I can do it, I tell myself as I close my eyes and force all my strength into my hand.

And then I cut.

The moment I pull at the knife, I know it’s enough force to finally achieve what I was too much of a coward to finish before.

But just as I pull, a hand clamps around my arm, yanking me back.

The knife disappears from my skin, only making a shallow cut.

“No!” I cry out, pulling at my arm to try and cut again.

“Let go,” I demand, spinning around as I put in more force.

I get it free, but the jerk sends my hand and the knife slicing through the air and cutting my assailer.

Or protector , I realize to my horror as I see the wide-eyed girl with the leather mask clutching at her stomach.

Her bleeding stomach.

I step back, shaking my head.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” is all I can say.

I’d do anything not to hurt that girl, but in the process of hurting myself, I did it.

Why can’t I just die?

Chaos erupts around me as someone comes in.

I keep watching her as Dax darts to her and takes her in his arms while someone pulls me back and wrests the knife from my hand.

It takes a minute for me to realize that it’s not Zoltan who has grabbed me, and a small gush of relief blows through me as I’m pulled out of the room, away from him.

But the relief dies as my eyes flit back to the bleeding girl, who glances from her wound to me with shock and pain mixing in her wide eyes.

Regret unlike any curdles in my stomach as I think I just might end up killing her instead of me.