Page 6 of The Lies We Tell

And there I fucking go again.

My club.

Like I really belong.

2

BRIAR

Iwatch him. The man I’ve been told will become my husband. He tugs his jacket over his arms and fastens it around his stomach.

I tug my knees up beneath my chin, wrap my arms around them, and try to breathe through the shivers and shudders.

The room is small, all concrete, like the foundation of a house never finished. There is a toilet in the corner and a bed across the room. It’s a king, soft bedding, and I’m grateful that I haven’t had to use it with this man who hit me so hard I’m still seeing double.

He touched my skin—nothing sexual. But from his words and his tone, I know it will be expected of me wherever I end up, because I’m here to breed. I can’t imagine being so scared and hateful of a changing world that my solution would be to create as many white children as possible. And worse, that the mother of those children would be stolen and raped and abused.

He talked about my new home so calmly. Like this was normal.

God, please don’t let it be another concrete prison like this. I won’t survive it.

The first chance I get, I’m going to run.

Even now, acid rises in my stomach, and I know I’ll be sick again if I don’t swallow and breathe and try to calm down.

The thin black slip I’m wearing is no help against the cold.

My eyes burn. Tears and not sleeping for an undetermined period of time are the cause. There are no windows in the room, so I have no idea how much time has passed since I was taken on Wednesday evening. Two days, maybe.

I haven’t been fed or given water since I arrived.

He slips on a jacket that I recognize is expensive from the label. “I’m very happy with you, Rose,” he says, like I didn’t just fight him for two hours.

I spat in his face and got slapped hard for my efforts.

I say nothing because I have nothing left in me right now.

“You’ll like our home,” he says as if this is normal.

Consensual.

When it’s anything but.

The red light beneath the camera in the corner blinks approximately every two seconds. The floor is blissfully cool and agonizingly hard against my beaten body.

I can’t look at him. His thick eyebrows, high forehead, and the wide nose of a drinker make me feel ill.

But he crouches in front of me and grips my chin. The scent of powerful cologne assaults me. It’s the kind you find in those all-American-type clothing stores that gets pumped in through vents and gives you a headache within minutes. “You can have the kind of life you choose,” he says. “You can have nice things, your own space. Or you can have this”—he gestures around him, then smooths a palm down my long blonde hair.

Whether I am in a concrete room or a decorated room will make little difference to the fact I am here against my will.

I say nothing.

“We’ll make arrangements for transport, and we’ll be reunited soon,” he says as he stands. His shoes clip across the cold floor.

As he walks to the door, my captor opens it. “Here’s the number for the two police officers, in case you have any transport problems,” my new keeper says.

I jump and suck in air as the door slams behind him.