Perspiration collects on my forehead as I attempt to appear indifferent at his presence in my home.
“Good news, I hope?”
“Yes. Yes.” He takes a swig of his Scotch. “The chief here has procured a shipment.”
I glance at the chief; his empty eyes are focused on mine. “A shipment of what?” I ask.
“Young women.”
“How young?” I clip back, barely giving him a chance to explain.
“Does it matter?” my father challenges.
“Yes.” I sharpen my tone. I drop my feet to the floor. “It matters because we’re going to draw attention to us.” I lean forward. “Attention we don’t fucking need all while your friends here”—I wave my hand in Vector’s and Harrison’s direction—“remain squeaky fucking clean and you put me in the firing line.”
“Well, these girls are worth more than drugs and weapons. That’s what I’ve been telling you. We don’t need those things anymore. We’ve upped our game, and with Harrison on board, there won’t be any firing line.”
Upped our game? Is he fucking serious? No firing line? Is he that deluded?
Not to mention, how the fuck can anyone be okay with this?
“And when can we expect the first shipment?” I direct my question toward Harrison, unable to hide my displeasure.
“I still have some loose ends to tie up. A few issues in the department I’d like to settle down before I agree to shipment.”
Issues in the department? I pretty much think that’s code for people are watching him. “And what do you get out of this?” I ask the question that would be on any businessman’s tongue.
He laughs, but I remain emotionless. “Anonymity and first pickings, of course.”
I ignore the ball of sickness growing in my stomach. These men, these monsters, repulse me. They’re not satisfied with unwilling men and women, they want children.
“I’d like to be in on the negotiations when the timecomes,” I state, my throat suddenly dry while I try to remain as impassive as possible. Because I want to know who the hell is orchestrating this shit. Every single one of them. I am unsure how to conclude this before starting, but this is too disturbing and twisted, and that’s a significant statement.
What strikes me is my father knows what my stance is on the matter of unwilling victims. Hell, from the moment I’ve been having sex it’s never been something I can participate in.
Maybe it’s the brutal rapes I’ve witnessed or my mother’s pleas for death to claim her when multiple men violated her during punishments that created the void in my mind, but he knows I would never commission this shit. So that poses the question, why the fuck is he here telling me about it?
Is he testing my trust? It’s the only logical explanation I can think of.
“I heard you have a toy you treat different from the rest,” he says, and I battle against the overwhelming urge to jolt. “Is it the slave you took from the whorehouse?”
He knows damn well she is.
I take a slow puff of my cigar, giving my heaving chest the perfect excuse to appear like it’s naturally inhaling and exhaling. “Yes. Where else would I have claimed her from?” I quip back, unable to hide the bite in my tone.
He chuckles, and the dread inside me multiplies. He shifts his focus to Jensen, and I anticipate the question.
“Go fetch her for me. I’d like to see what’s so special about her.”
“There’s nothing special about her,” I lie, and even I hear it in my tone.
“Now!” my father barks, and Jensen nods. Then hiseyes catch mine, as if seeking approval, and I dip my head, hating the fact I do.
If I don’t comply as I normally would, I run the risk of exposing how I feel about her, and the consequences will destroy us both.
Hevan
A knock sounds on the door, only this time it isn’t as violent as the last, and when Jensen steps inside, his face has blanched, his eyes focus on the spot above my head. “You’re needed downstairs.”
