Page 56 of Never Lost (The Unchained #3)

Heart still pounding, I picked up one of her hands, under the guise of examining the tag attached to the chain, looking for the distinctive mark, a blurry photo of which had begun this whole operation.

But I didn’t even need to spot the shape of Florida instead of Massachusetts to know that this waif, trembling in her drab garb, was no pampered society princess.

The dealer, loathsome as he was, had been telling the truth about that.

She was a born slave, most likely, whether in France or somewhere else.

It didn’t matter. What did matter was that we’d just spent two months on this for nothing, and?—

“You’re not going to keep me, monsieur?” she asked in English.

“Quiet, slave,” said the panicky Flamm, reaching past the handler and kneeing her square in the back.

She tried in vain to steady herself on the marble, but she couldn’t in her tight cuffs, and this time, she really did face-plant.

As she lay there, a tear delicately slipped out of her eye, rolled down her cheek, and onto the floor.

The job will try to get to you, they’d told me.

Don’t let it. Well, no shit. Here I was, once again, standing here looking at my goddamn sister.

Looking at myself . And what was I thinking about?

All the late nights in the field office I’d wasted working on this case when I could have been in my one-bedroom Arlington apartment, listening to moody old jazz records, browsing dense scientific journals, and scouring the internet for any mention of microchip technology, Max Langer, Maeve van Someren, Keith Wainwright-Phillips, or?—

“Mr. Pomerleau?”

The girl was staring at me openly now. Everyone was staring at me.

Sébastien Pomerleau, international playboy, was standing hunched in his own marble foyer, speechless, condensation dripping down the back of his hand and beneath his sleeve, over the numbers seared forever into his wrist. And which— story of my life—were preventing me from touching, speaking to, or even looking at the only ones who mattered to me.

And which were netting me a few hundred bucks a month while some anonymous corporate entity—as I’d lately discovered—quietly formed an LLC, patented my scientific discovery, and applied for millions of dollars’ worth of venture capital funding to get it running under the guise of using it on pets. Animal pets.

None of it made sense. I’d thought that formula was safe. But what the hell was I going to do, sue? The government still didn’t officially consider me a person, even though I worked for them.

Okay, so maybe I was under a bit of stress, as suggested by a fellow consultant in a peer-support session they’d made me attend, and not just because of the job. A job that, at this rate, I wasn’t even sure I’d be in much longer.

I looked down at my glass of sad, brownish water. Well, my bourbon was fucked. Everything was fucked. Back to field training for Sébastien Pomerleau, federal lapdog.

And then I looked down at the girl, whose head had dropped so low I could see the nerves flexing above her crooked spine.

Above the collar of her uniform glistened the tops of fresh, untreated lash wounds.

No wonder she was helplessly swiping her teary eyes on the shoulder of her uniform.

This “luxury slave dealership” was no less of a nest of horrors than all the rest, as if I’d ever doubted that.

Well, shit. There was nothing I could do to help myself, but that didn’t mean there was nothing I could do to help her . That was another perk of the job—for as long as I could keep getting away with it, anyway.

“Shall we complete the transaction, sir?” asked Flamm.

“I don’t think so.”

Flamm coughed and sputtered, wiping his brow, barely keeping a handle on his oily, practiced sycophancy. “Excuse me? Why ever not?”

“Because it’s the wrong girl,” I said, heart hammering as I veered further and further off script. Why did these things always seem to end up as one-man nights at the improv?

Meanwhile, any bravado the girl had was gone. She was shaking. I grabbed her again and tipped her up to face me. “ Joue le jeu, gamine ,” I told her, knowing Flamm wouldn’t understand. Play along, kid. Wrong girl or not, I’m getting you out of here.

She watched me as I turned back to Flamm.

“Just as I thought. You’re trying to pass off some cheap American housemaid for the French girl I requested.

How stupid do you think I am?” I demanded, continuing to shake her.

“The minx doesn’t understand a word I’ve been saying. Tu ne comprends pas, hein ?”

She shook her head, pretending to be utterly baffled.

“See?” I snapped, swatting her as hard as I dared on the ear.

Good girl. “I’d almost expect this kind of chicanery from some bargain-basement operation, but not from Aurum, which I had planned on highly recommending to several close personal friends of mine who are in the market for trained luxury slaves.

” I could practically see Flamm gulping as a few party guests poked their heads in at the commotion.

“And furthermore, I’ll have you note, forging a slave’s identity is a federal offense. ”

This was true—at least, I was pretty sure it was—but it was also more or less impossible.

However, maybe I could scare the dealer into forgetting that.

A badge and a gun might help, but consultants, sadly, didn’t get those.

I spoke louder, praying I’d be heard by the guy on the other end of the tiny wire I was wearing pinned inside my shirt.

Where are you, Manny? Put down your goddamn martini and come back me up.

“I assure you, Mr. Pomerleau,” Flamm stammered, his voice rising an octave, “there’s been no mistake. This is the merchandise you ordered. Perhaps she’s a bit confused, but I’m certain that once you scan the microchip, she?—”

“Enough.” I held up a hand. Just what I needed: for this asshole to pull out a portable chip reader and prove just how entirely full of shit I was.

“I know precisely what I ordered. And this”—I let go of the girl dismissively—“is not it. I have guests here, Monsieur Flamm, clamoring to see this girl. And now you’ve left me with the utterly mortifying task of going in and informing them that our evening has been ruined . ”

Flamm blanched, tugging at his damp shirt collar. “There—there must be some misunderstanding…”

“No. The only misunderstanding,” I continued coolly, hoping now just to keep this slimeball talking while Manny got into place, “is you thinking you could cheat me and get away with it.”

“But I?—”

“I’m afraid Mr. Pomerleau is correct,” came a deep voice from farther inside the house.

Thank fuck. I stepped aside to make way for a muscular man in a flashy dark suit and an even flashier badge, who exchanged only a slight, knowing, slightly exasperated glance with me.

“Forging the identity of a slave to pass her off as another is indeed a federal crime under statute 107.31A. You’re under arrest for?—”

“Arrest?!” Flamm sputtered pathetically. “I haven’t done anything!”

Which was true. But it also wasn’t.

“This is outrageous!” he continued, his face turning purple as Manny whipped out the cuffs, which we both knew were for show.

Not like I wouldn’t fucking love to see this asshole chained up as much as he loved chaining up slaves.

“He hasn’t even paid for her. She’s still my merchandise, merchandise I paid good money for, and I refuse to be strong-armed by some jumped-up Eurotrash… ”

“You want to say that again, maybe?”

The dealer’s words died in his throat as I stepped into his space.

It seemed to spark in the slightly built dealer a realization that he was at the mercy of two larger, younger, fitter guys, one of whom had his hand resting on what was probably a gun.

For good measure, I grabbed the lapel of the dealer’s crested jacket.

Not gonna lie, it felt good, as manhandling these spineless, bullying sons of bitches always did.

I tried not to revel too much in it, though. I’d seen where that led.

“I thought not. I’ll tell you what, Monsieur Flamm.

We’ll let you off with a warning this time,” I said, feeling the weight of Manny’s gaze over my shoulder.

I’ve got your back, man, as always. Just don’t fuck it up.

“If you give me the girl. No charge. Consider it fair compensation for the distress and inconvenience you’ve caused me tonight. ”

Flamm gaped at me, eyes bulging. “You can’t be serious! She’s worth?—”

“I’m dead serious. The girl stays here. You avoid federal charges,” I said, even though nobody deserved federal charges more than this scumbag. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

The remaining color drained from Flamm’s too-tan face as he realized I wasn’t bluffing. His gaze darted over our shoulders, where he found only a handful of other guests sipping mint juleps and happily enjoying his squirming.

After another long moment, Flamm slumped where he stood, sweat rolling in waves off his forehead.

“Fine,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

The genteel mask had dropped to the ground, revealing him for the violent thug he really was.

That they all really were. “Take the little bitch. She’s more trouble than she’s worth, anyway. ”

The handler, fed up, shoved the whipped, chained, tearful, incredulous girl forward into her new life, her shoulders still shaking.

But when I—after a satisfied down-low fist bump with Manny—rested one rough, scarred hand comfortingly on her shoulder, she relaxed into it.

And I allowed myself a small smile and a sigh.

But Flamm wasn’t finished. “Expect to hear from my attorney,” he said as he turned back to his vehicle, pausing to stare me down with a mix of hatred and bafflement. “This isn’t over, Mr.—well, whoever the fuck you really are.”

But I wasn’t entirely sure myself.