Page 37

CHARLOTTE

T he drive from the airport was a welcome reprieve since I wasn’t forced to endure a suffocating, blindfolded journey.

But the blacked-out windows mean I still can’t see anything outside.

I’ve got two heavily armed guards on either side of me in the Escalade.

Neither have said a single word to me, or hardly even looked at me.

Distracted, I nervously twist the rope binding my hands, the rough hemp scratching against my skin, a dull ache growing in my wrists. The car slows down, and the driver opens his window. Not that I can see through the black partition, but I can hear him.

Italian possibly. They’re so muffled it’s hard to make out.

I keep as still as possible as the guard on my left opens his door. Taking in a deep breath of fresh air is a relief. My head is still kinda fuzzy from the way over here.

The light almost blinds me as I look outside.

“Come on,” he grunts.

Nope. American?

Shuffling out, my legs are unsteady, and he holds out a hand to keep me up.

I go to thank him, then I stop, remembering what I’m walking into.

The car drives off, and I’m left with my two guards on either side of me, staring down a gravel pathway that leads to an enormous set of iron gates with the same letter “D” pattern as on the invitation and contract.

Smoke billows out of the brick factory behind the gates. They weren’t fucking around.

A chocolate factory. The bright purple Decadence sign is branded on the front. I look at the guard on my left as we approach the doors. But he continues ignoring me.

As my boots crunch on the gravel, we approach the gates. A gigantic water fountain, its spray a shimmering arc in the sunlight, stands behind the gates, marking the entrance to the imposing factory.

The purple-branded delivery trucks to the left idle, their engines a low thrum against the morning air, exhaust smelling faintly of diesel. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself, hugging my torso tightly despite the warm air; a deep chill still permeates my bones.

Dread consumes me as the words on the contract replay.

I’m stepping right into hell, and there is no turning back.

Whoever is behind this has me trapped. There’s also a chance I’ll never walk back out of here.

I tip my chin up, remembering Drago’s words that this place could set me free.

I’ve already been to hell. It’s my time to taste heaven.

As the gates open electronically, I’m frozen on the spot.

“Come,” the guard grunts.

I can’t walk.

I can’t move.

Torn between one hell and another.

“This is your last chance to enter the games,” he says in a low tone, and it’s the kick up the ass I need.

I have no choice. My daughter needs me.

It’s hard to comprehend everything as I follow him through the main doors.

It’s a normal factory. Huge steel machinery. Workers all dressed in white coats. Ignoring me like I’m a ghost.

And the smell. It really is decadent. It makes my stomach rumble and my eyes go wide.

Decadent. A word I’ve not heard in five years. A word that makes my stomach flutter. I almost want to laugh. What are the chances of that?

“Do I meet The Master before the games?” I whisper.

The guard stops and spins to face me; his deep green eyes bore into me.

“Rules. You do not speak unless spoken to. Now move. Follow orders.” He nods before striding off towards a set of double doors. He enters his thumbprint, and I store that in my brain.

Okay, definitely American.

And I’m gonna need to cut off someone’s thumb if I’m going to escape at any point.

Following them down the corridor, the smell of wet paint stings my nostrils as I trail behind him to a door on the right.

“In here,” the man grunts, and I hear the click as it opens.

As we moved away from the doors, the rich aroma of chocolate fades, replaced by the sharp, sterile scent of cleaning chemicals, the faint smell of leather, and the fresh, slightly acrid tang of paint.

I step inside and he clears his throat behind me, and I turn, taking in the giant in front of me covered with a black balaclava. His dark brown eyes burn into mine, intense and unwavering, as I scan his body clad in a tight black top that hugs his arms.

I’m looking for markers. A sign of which family they belong to. Nothing. Covered from head to toe.

“Tonight is preparation night,” he tells me, nodding behind me.

I follow his line of vision, a plush double bed with satin purple covers. A bathroom. And a black duffle bag on the bed.

“Preparation?” I ask, turning back to him.

“Shower. Get yourself clean. You’ve traveled far. Get some sleep. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes. The games begin at sunrise.”

I nod.

“And where exactly am I? You know, so I can work out my jet lag situation.” I bat my lashes at him.

“Pennsylvania. In a chocolate factory.”

I choked on a sudden, unexpected laugh, my face turning red.

“I’m sorry. It just sounds like a joke when you say it out loud.”

His eyes darken, and he scratches his, I assume, beard beneath the mask.

“We don’t joke.”

I snap my mouth shut. Why does he suddenly sound less American?

“Okay. So you’ll come get me at sunrise. How many hours?”

He looks at his shining watch; as he lifts up his arm, I get a peek of his pistol.

“Seven hours,” he says flatly.

I bite back a yawn. Whatever they knocked me out with is clearly having its effect still.

“Okay,” I say, and take a step back.

“What’s in the bag?” I point to it. I wasn’t allowed to bring a single thing with me. The guards must have my rucksack.

“Your outfit for the games.”

“Like a costume?” I shake my head in disbelief. What the hell is going on?

He steps forward and towers over me.

“Nothing here is a joke. You read the contract. You signed on the dotted line. You belong to Decadence now.”

I blink at him, the harshness of his voice sending shivers down my spine.

“Sorry,” I reluctantly whisper.

“I’m nervous.” I’m not completely lying. A lot rests on these games.

And it’s exactly that, one big sick game.

One I fully intend to win.

With an indignant huff, he slams the door shut, the sound echoing through the room, and the heavy lock clicks into place. Once his heavy footsteps disappear, I sit on the edge of the bed.

I just want my little girl back.

Letting out a shaky breath, I grab the bag and tip it upside down.

“Outfit?” I mutter to myself.

All I see is an array of black and purple leather straps.

I pick up one section and hold it up, tilting my head.

I’m going to be barely covered.

There are lots of gold hoops.

I rummage through the rest, picking out two purple leather cuffs with hooks.

“How the hell do I get into all this? Are there instructions?” I mutter, shaking the bag again.

Great. A puzzle of lingerie.

My first test.

I best wake up two hours before so I can work this out. Right now, I need a hot shower and some rest.

Rule one of battle: be physically ready.