Page 9

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Paigelynn

Making them think I'm pregnant has to be good enough.

Being pregnant is better, of course, but we can't know that for four weeks. If Cam sleeps with me, and they know he slept with me, then that's enough for some of them to want to keep me alive long enough to see if I'm carrying a child.

A child they'll find useful.

If I'm going to survive, I have to learn to think the way they do. I have to stop following my own ethical center and shove it aside to put myself in their skin.

Because they want my skin.

And my child's.

Someday, if we make it out alive, I can worry about how this all feels.

Dead people can't worry.

Whatever it takes, I need to be not dead, and the promise of a baby whose organs can help people other than The Mother is my ticket to short-term survival.

Cam is my long-term ride out of here.

His words out on the shore cut through me deeply. I could feel his sincerity. Blunt and sure of himself, he was a bit cruel, too.

He's also right.

Cam is my only hope. I have no choice. I have to trust him.

And if I'm going to trust him fully, I need to give myself over to him fully.

Mind, soul, and body.

What better way to guarantee more time alive than to let him take my virginity? This is the perfect plan.

Or, perhaps – our only plan.

"I've got her," Cam says firmly as two beefy guards try to step between us. Cam takes my arm and runs my hand under his elbow. The message is clear: Stick with me.

I clutch his arm and walk quickly to match his step, avoiding eye contact with anyone else.

"Luisi wants to talk to you," a guard I've never seen says in a dull voice.

"He can wait."

A lump forms in my throat, the tension making it hard to breathe. In my peripheral vision, I can see the guy blink, then frown.

"It's not that kind of thing. It's an order."

"I'm not Dominic's bitch," Cam says flatly, then picks up speed, walking me to a corridor, turning right. We leave the guy behind, and we're walking so fast I nearly trip, the ankle monitor rubbing against my skin now, a raw spot forming.

I ignore it. Getting into a private room is more important than my pain.

"Mario!" booms someone with a light European accent, one that's hard to place. During my training, I was taught to understand accented English, part of my studies to be demure, womanly, and comfortable to be around at sophisticated events.

The Mother failed to teach me this accent.

"Sandor, hello," Cam says through gritted teeth. The man embraces Cam and whispers something short in his ear.

They belly laugh as Sandor comes in for one of those sophisticated side hugs men of his stature have perfected.

Sandor winks at me, and I try to remember to smile. Then Cam touches my waist as Sandor departs, down the hall, out of sight.

"You're performing perfectly," he tells me quietly, turning to the right again, until there are fewer doors along the hallways. Finally, we reach a big wooden door at the end. He waves a black wrist device against the doorknob and it unlocks.

"Who was that?"

"Sandor Javics. One of the families."

"Is he your friend?"

I'm ushered in first.

"We're being watched," he hisses. "Don't assume we're not. Even the bathroom is likely compromised."

A rush of fear shoots through me. I'm surprised I can still feel it. I should be dead inside.

I'm not.

Something tranquil washes over me. Letting go of fear means giving them less control over me. If I let The Mother, Makiah – the billionaire butchers – inside my head, then they truly rule over me.

Except they are not my kings and queens. They are not royalty. They are insignificant.

Cam is my king. I am his queen.

And even if everything I've been taught since the age of twelve is a lie, I know this with rock-hard certainty:

There is more good in the world than evil.

I am good. Cam is good. And whatever means we use to get out of this alive will justify the ends.

If I have to sacrifice my virginity and sleep with Cam for the sake of fooling this cabal, and turning the men against The Mother, then so be it. They trained me to believe that my entire purpose on earth is to sacrifice myself for the greater good.

Fine.

I'll do as they trained me.

Just... not quite the way they expect.

The room we're in is so different from my own, opulent and large, with hallways on either side.

An open layout shows a large kitchen to my left, with a big island.

Granite countertops, a stylish gray, are completely, pristinely clear.

Stainless steel shines everywhere. To the right of the kitchen, just past the hallway opening, a sleek dining set for four waits patiently for us to eat later.

The couches are varying shades of gray with blood red pillows, interspersed with textured cream.

"Bedrooms are that way," he points, first to the right, then to the left.

"Am I staying here now?" I move toward him, my hand on his chest, inhaling his scent. "With you?"

Tap tap tap.

The knock on the door makes me shriek, a tiny sound of shock I don't expect to come out of my mouth. Perhaps I have more fear in me, after all.

Cam grabs my hand and kisses my palm. "Play along," is all he says before walking to the door.

Except I'm not playing.

Is he?

The Mother stands in the doorway, a strap over her shoulder, her body letting out a steady hissing sound.

Hiss

Ahhh

Hiss

Ahhh

No trendy handbag is on her shoulder – it's a medical device, attached to clear tubes that go to her nose.

Oxygen.

"Mario," she says to Cam sharply. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Whatever I want," he says, blocking her from coming in. She takes a step forward, and he stops her. Another to the right, and he follows her.

She lets out an injured sound. "Let my arm go. That hurts."

"Leave, Mother. Just leave."

"I absolutely will not. You can't order me around. You gave her to me." She lets out a rumbly cough, the kind you expect to hear from someone on death's door. This woman is nothing like the person I've spoken to on video calls all these years.

What happened to her?

I resist the urge to hide behind Cam like a scared child. Instead, I take a step to the right, coming into full view. Her eyes catch mine and she smiles.

But she cuts our gaze, eyes dropping to my chest.

"I see you remain in fine health," she says in a lumbering voice, clearing her throat again, then coughing.

I just blink. Why was I ever afraid of her? Of... this ? This poor, sick thing standing at the door, demanding to be obeyed? For years, she terrified me. Terrorized me.

And I didn't even realize it.

Being a "good girl," an obedient Princess, a faithful future queen was all I knew.

And all I knew were lies. Lies told to me by The Mother. This mother.

This... wretch.

Laughing right now would be a mistake, but it's so tempting. A piece of me breaks free, my lungs easier to fill, my heart lighter. A heavy metal ankle bracelet holds me down, and I'm definitely not safe yet, but in my own mind, I'm safer. Freer.

Certainly, less afraid.

"Are you mute? Speak when spoken to," she demands of me, Cam blocking her, letting out a disgusted huff.

"You're not in charge here, Mother. I'll speak with you later."

"You can't do this, Mario."

"I can, and I am."

Just like that, he slams the door in her face, then locks the deadbolt. Nostrils flaring, he runs a hand through his mussed dark waves, and walks past me, into the kitchen, wrenching the refrigerator door open.

A beer bottle appears in his hand. He grips it hard, then looks at me. The way he licks his lips ignites me. There's a power to him right now, something angry and hot. It's more than protectiveness, and definitely greater than frustration.

He's in control.

He's the one in charge.

"Does she always call you Mario?" I ask, choosing my words carefully. "I assume that's the name she gave you when you were born?"

"Yes. Mario Santinos is my birth name." Those soulful eyes meet mine, his gaze unwavering. I can feel the truth in what he says.

"Should I call you Mario, then?"

"I prefer Cam. It's my chosen name."

"Cam it is, then."

"Thank you. Should I call you Paige?"

"What? Why?"

"Because it's your given name. The one you were born with. Mother created the combination of your first and middle names, I suspect."

"I'm accustomed to it," I say, shaken by the question. The world feels too big. Too vast. Too many choices. It's easier when someone tells me what to do, even as I crave freedom and autonomy. "Paigelynn is fine."

"Cam and Paigelynn it is, then."

I like hearing him say my name. It feels natural on his tongue. It makes me feel seen. Real. Known.

Wanted .

And not just for body parts.

"What do we do next?" I ask nervously.

At my words, he casts a look my way, feral and filled with lust.

"We take away their power."

"By making love."

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you not?"

"How am I supposed to know?" I ask, voice going high with anguish.

Cam looks like someone knocked the wind out of him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

I touch his shoulder, gripping his hand. "I didn't – I don't mean it that way."

"What way?"

"Like I don't want to."

"But you don't know how to know whether you know if you're sure?"

"Yes! Exactly!"

"I need a drink."

"Can I have one, too?"

He looks even more shocked. "You want alcohol?"

"Why not? I don't have to be a perfect princess any longer." The thought fills me with a lightless I find new and thrilling. "Yes! In fact, I want to drink alcohol and smoke pot and be corrupt."

"I love how you say that, 'Corrupt.'" His laugh makes me feel looser.

"Why? What's so special about how I say it?"

"People who drink and smoke pot aren't corrupt. They're having fun. Relaxing. Partaking." He smiles. "Corrupt is what the people who convince you that smoking and drinking are corrupt. They dissuade you from having fun and indulging because they don't want you to sully the merchandise."

"I want to ruin the merchandise, then. And you're going to help me."