And I know he’s right. Out here, no one can hear me.
No one but them.
Jackson’s hand presses back on my thigh like he’s staking his claim. The leather of the seat squeaks with each bump of the road, the SUV growling low as Donnie takes us further from anything familiar. My cheek burns where he hit me, the heat crawling into my jaw.
My voice comes out raw. “Why?” I manage. My throat tightens,but I force it out again, louder. “Why take me there? Why dress me up like some—” I choke on the word. “—like some whore?”
Jackson turns his head slow, like a cat who’s already decided the mouse has nowhere left to run. His grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it culminates.
“Because, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice sliding under my skin like oil, “you needed to look the part when you arrive. First impressions matter. When you meet the staff, they’ll expect you polished. Perfect. Not rocking up wearing another man’s pajamas.”
My blood goes cold. “Staff?” The word scrapes like glass up my throat.
He leans closer, his curls brushing my shoulder, breath hot against my ear. “Oh yes. Staff. Who’ll take care of your daily needs in your new home. The kind of place where ladies like you stay nice and safe… as long as they behave.”
His fingers tap-tap-tap against my thigh, a rhythm as steady as a metronome, each beat a threat.
“And if I don’t?” My voice is too quick, too sudden, but I can’t swallow the question back.
His eyes spark like blue flame. He tilts his head, amused, almost gentle—like he’s explaining bedtime rules to a child. “That little warehouse you just saw? With the lingerie racks, the bruised-up pets, the ones too broken to lift their heads?” His smile widens, but there’s nothing human in it. “That’s where you’ll end up. Passed around until there’s nothing left worth selling.”
The air punches out of me. My stomach twists so hard I think I’ll vomit right there in his lap.
He notices. Of course he does. He drags his hand higher up my leg, squeezing until I can’t tell if I’m shaking from rage or terror. “I wanted you to see it,” he says softly. “I wanted you to know what happens when a woman thinks she’s braver than she really is.”
My nails dig into the cracked leather of the seat until I feel them bend. My chest heaves, but I keep my chin up, keep my eyes locked on the blur of road outside the window. If I look at him again, I’ll break.
Jackson doesn’t need me to answer. He leans back, satisfied, his hand finally retreating. But his words cling to me like smoke.
A home.
Staff.
Behave, or rot with the others.
Others who shouldn’t be there.
It feels like we’ve been driving forever. Roads blur into each other, long ribbons of black hemmed in by trees that look the same no matter how far we go. Time doesn’t move normally anymore. It stretches, warps, coils around my ribs like barbed wire.
When the SUV finally slows, my heart stutters. Gravel crunches under the tires, louder than gunfire. I lift my head, eyes straining past the smear of my own reflection in the window.
A country house. Not a house—a mansion. Pale stone, sprawling wings, windows that gleam like eyes. At the gates, tall and electric, a buzzing sound splits the silence before we even stop. They swing open like jaws, welcoming us inside.
The driveway is long enough to feel like another trap. Lined trees bow inward, their branches clasped like skeletal fingers. A fountain rises in the center—three tiers of carved marble, water spilling endlessly into a pool wide enough to drown a dozen bodies in. The SUV circles it, gliding to a stop.
“Welcome home, Summer,” Jackson murmurs.
I shudder before I can stop myself, and his grin widens, like he’s felt the tremor run through me.
The engine dies, and I can’t tell if it’s better or worse that I’m not trapped in that warehouse with the broken girls. I know I should feel relief—lucky, even—that I’m not already bleeding out on a stained mattress or crumpled in some basement corner. But the thought curdles in me.
Because if Jacob hadn’t hidden me, if he hadn’t locked me away in his twisted idea of safety, then maybe the other women wouldn’t be there. Maybe if he’d kept investigating instead of protecting me,fewer of them would be whispering prayers into their own wrists tonight.
The guilt crushes me, bitter and black, still, I choke it back before it can show on my face.
My voice cracks when I speak. “Why now? Why come for me now? My parents. You killed them. Isn’t that enough?”
For a moment, silence stretches. Donnie twists the key out of the ignition. The ticking of the engine cooling fills the space, like a clock running out.
