Page 23

Ten years ago

After Reese, I was transferred.

They call this one a brothel, because there’s less pomp and circumstance.

A lot of the women here are drugged. The men who roam the halls always have stuff on them, using it to tempt the women into submission—or threaten the sober ones.

Sometimes I crave the unknown substance. It makes them malleable, like dolls. They don’t seem to care what the men do to them.

If we’re not in a private room with a client, we’re out in the open on the first floor of the house. There’s not much to do except wallow in self-pity. Doing anything else would draw the attention of the guards.

In quiet moments, my mind strays to the guard who gave me his name. Antonio. There was sadness in his eyes when he locked my cell, a certain sort of helplessness that I hadn’t seen before. I was helpless. I was trapped. But… his expression made me think maybe he was trapped in his role, too.

And also Reese. The way he touched me to make my body shake and quiver—and not out of fear. I think about his eyes when the world gets too hard, and try as I might, I can’t figure out if he’s a good guy or bad.

If he bought me and raped me without complaint, or if he was forced into it, too.

The men who come into this place pay at the door for an hour, they select which one they want, and then… well, beyond that, I don’t think there are any rules. Just don’t kill us, right? But I’m sporting a black eye from an aggressive guy who came in the other day.

He tried to suffocate me, and instinct kicked in.

I fought back. I’m not ashamed to admit that.

But once he was compensated for his trouble , the guards locked me away from the other girls. They threatened to drug me into an oblivion and offer that guy another pass at me.

Fear rolled down my back.

I babbled promises. To behave and whatever else might save me.

Now, the night ticks toward dawn, and I am the only one awake. I lie on a pallet in the open room, surrounded by other women, but I don’t think I’ve slept in weeks. Not the kind of sleep I need. I doze. Any little noise jars me from rest.

That’s exactly what happens tonight.

There’s a scraping noise, and then a louder click. Someone murmurs—a guard, perhaps, stationed outside. They don’t have to be in here with us because of the cameras always on us. They torment me almost more than the men, because there is no such thing as privacy here.

At least at Terror, I had my own room. A door that locked, albeit from the outside.

I sit up slowly, clutching at the thin blanket covering my legs.

There’s a muffled thump , and then a piercing shout.

Male.

Angry.

Pop-pop-pop .

More girls are waking up around me, and I shush them. I can’t see anything. The moon is gone, shifted away from the window, leaving nothing for me to go on. My eyes haven’t adjusted—it’s impossible in this kind of pitch-black.

Pop-pop-pop .

A woman screams. “Those are gunshots!”

That riles everyone. I leap to my feet and back up, pressing my spine to the wall. The brush of hands across my chest, stomach, as they stumble and feel their way to safety, makes me all the more rigid.

There’s another volley of shots, this time louder, higher-pitched. There’s no softness to it.

Different gun.

I cannot move.

After a long moment, it goes silent. Everyone, everything. My breath even seems loud and ragged. I hold it in for a count of five, then slowly exhale.

The door blows inward. Light from the outer room, where the guards stay and payment is made, that was previously blocked, now floods in.

I glance to the side, checking the women. They’re bunched up together, clutching at each other’s arms, expressions twisted with fear.

I won’t die like that. I think I decided that a long time ago.

Cowering will give me nothing.

It won’t save me.

A man steps into the doorway, silhouetted by the bright light. It sears, but I can’t look away. Can’t stop blinking, trying to get my eyes to tell me what I’m seeing is a lie.

“Artemis?” a rough voice calls out.

Another door opens, and a man staggers into the room. He raises his weapon, a rifle that has prodded me in the back many times. Before the muzzle lifts high enough, a shot comes from the front entrance.

He drops like a stone.

“Artemis,” he calls again, and the voice finally registers.

A voice I didn’t think I would ever hear again.

“She’s here,” one of the women whispers.

An overhead light flickers on, and my heart cracks open.

My twin brother, Apollo, enters the room with his gun at his side. There’s a spray of blood across his face and chest. Only when he spots me, as if I have a spotlight on me, do I move from the wall.

How long has it been since I’ve seen him?

He was sold to a gang.

I was sold to Terror.

But I’ve lost track of time.

My staggered steps become a sprint toward him. He catches me easily, his arm banding around my back and his other hand cupping my head. He holds me steady for a minute, then slowly releases me.

“We need to go,” he says. “Are there other women?”

I glance back and catalog them.

When I look back, he’s removed his shirt. His gun stowed in the waistband of his jeans, he takes a second to wrangle my arms through, then my head.

The loose fabric falls around my body, hitting mid-thigh.

I don’t have it in me to blush. I’ve been in a state of undress since I arrived at Terror.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Hold it together, Tem.”

I swallow and lift my chin.

I’ve never had to hold it together before. When Mom told me Apollo was gone, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. This whole experience has made me numb, but that’s not keeping my composure.

That’s shock.

That’s trauma.

He curls his arm around my shoulders. “Tell them.”

My throat has closed.

I’m no saint. I’m certainly not the warrior he thinks I am.

It doesn’t stop him from saying, “The guards are gone, ladies. Let me get you out of here.”

They unpeel from the wall, from each other, and creep toward us. Some grab blankets, wrapping them around the shoulders of the others. The ones who escaped the drugs guide out the incoherent ones.

We exit into the front room. I’d imagined what it looked like. I was shuffled in through the back when I first arrived, never seeing the client entrance. There are couches, a desk.

But now there are dead guards. At least five of them, one fallen across the desk, another on the couch. Blood pools under their bodies. A laptop lies smashed on the floor.

“You’re okay,” Apollo assures me.

He’s my brother.

My twin.

I trust him to know me when I cannot… but I don’t think there’s any way I am okay .

And I don’t think I ever will be again.