A man steps forward from the circle. He’s taller than the others, with a lean, predatory grace and a scar that cuts through his eyebrow. He doesn’t smile. “Antonio? After everything, that’s the first name on your lips? You’re asking for him?”
The question hangs in the air, and in his tone, I hear it. The implication. Not concern from me, but loyalty. My stomach churns and then, like a bolt of lightning, the pieces connect. The professionalism, the cold efficiency, the sheer, unadulterated hatred that simmers just beneath their surface. They’re not some random kidnappers.
They are Esau.
The name is a phantom limb, a ghost story whispered so often it’s become a joke. Fear turns to a sharp, acidic anger as I lift my chin, meeting the scarred man’s gaze.
“I am notaskingfor him,” I snap, the words gaining strength from my fury. “I want to know if the bastard is dead. After I attacked him, did he bleed out?”
A ripple of laughter moves through the circle of men. It’s not a joyful sound; it’s the grating, dismissive laugh of predators toying with wounded prey. One of them, a brute with a shaved head, shakes his head. “You’re a fool, little girl, if you think a man like Antonio Macrae can be killed by a little stick.”
The insult lands, but I cling to the anger. It’s the only thing keeping the terror at bay. “Give me a knife,” I say, my voice low and steady. “Send me back. I’ll see the job done properly.”
The scarred man in front of me lets out a soft, chilling sound that might be a laugh. He leans over, placing his hands on the armrests of my chair, caging me in. His face is inches from mine. I can smell his cologne, something sharp and smoky and it almost, but not quite covers the stench coming from me. His eyes travel over my filthy clothes, my matted hair, my doubtless pale and bruised face and then he drags one finger down the diamond collar that still, inexplicably, is locked around my throat.
“You are very full of yourself for a woman who has been Antonio Macrae’s whore for the last year,” he says, his voice a near-whisper.
Whore. The word repeats in my head, but it’s the number that sends a cold shock through my system, freezing the angry retort on my lips. A year? It can’t have been a year. The endless parties, the slow erosion of my will, first in his castle and then in that house… it felt like an eternity, and yet no time at all. Has it truly been twelve months since my old life was erased? The realization is a vertigo, a sickening lurch.
The bargaining desperation surges back. This is my chance. They hate him. Maybe they’ll see me as an ally. A victim.
“I didn’t want to be with him,” I plead, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a raw, desperate honesty. “You have to understand. He bought me, he took me. He has held me captive. The things he’s done… the most disgusting, degrading things…” My voice breaks, and I hate the weakness in it, but I need them to believe me. “Everything I did was to survive. You don’t know what it’s like.”
The scarred man straightens up, his expression unreadable. The brute with the shaved head steps forward this time, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. He pulls a phone from his pocket, his thick fingers tapping the screen.
“Seemed willing enough to me,” he grunts.
He shoves the phone in my face. The screen glows, and I see a scene I know all too well. One that keeps playing like a bad movie in my head. The low, crimson light of the Black Orchid. And there I am, crawling on my hands and knees across the floor, my head bowed as Antonio leads me like a dog. The camera angle is from above, voyeuristic and clinical. I watch myself in that grotesque pantomime of submission, my face a carefully constructed mask of vacant obedience.
A hot wave of shame washes over me, so potent I feel nauseous. “That wasn’t willingness,” I whisper, tearing my eyes away from the screen. “That was survival. Every smile, every word, every… performance. It was all a calculation to stay alive.”
“Survival?” the scarred man scoffs, taking back the phone. “Signing a marriage certificate is not survival. It’s a choice.”
I frown, my mind reeling. The words don’t make sense. They clatter against the walls of my reality, failing to find purchase. “What? What are you talking about? I didn’t sign anything.”
Marriage? What the fuck are they talking about? I was his sex slave, his creature to use, his dog…
The brute laughs and produces a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. He unfolds it with a theatrical flair and holds it inches from my nose. My eyes scan the formal, legal language. At the bottom, next to Antonio’s flamboyant signature is another; one rushed, like the pen was dragged across the page before it was discarded.
A memory, suppressed and blurry, surfaces. That first night in Oblivion. The terror, the disorientation, and all those watchful, leering eyes.
“This is a trick,” I breathe, my blood running cold. “He tricked me. He forced me. I didn’t know what it was.”
“That’s what every bitch says,” The scarred man says, his voice devoid of any emotion. “But you are no longer a runaway whore. You are his wife, and that makes you useful.”
The room shifts, the ground beneath me seems to change. I am not a victim to be rescued or an enemy to be punished. I am property with a new, terrifying legal designation. A bargaining chip.
“Useful for what?” I ask, my voice small and childlike in the vast space.
The men all look at each other, and the unison of their low, knowing laughter is the most frightening sound I have ever heard. It echoes off the warehouse walls, a chorus of impending doom.
“How do you bring down a king? You capture his queen....” The scarred man says as he nods to the others.
The brute and another man step forward, their hands grabbing my arms, hauling me up, chair and all. The ropes cut deeper as I am lifted.
“No! Wait, what does that mean?” I scream, the sound tearing from my throat. The terror I have been holding back finally breaks its dam, flooding every part of me. I thrash against my bindings, my screams echoing in the cavernous space. “Tell me. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO TO ME?”
They don’t answer. They simply carry me, a trussed-up offering toward a dark doorway at the far end of the warehouse.
