I haven’t left this room since some burly guard carried me back here from Natalia’s office. Have barely left this bed, if I’m being honest. All I do is sit here and think– about the Dollhouse, about the Kings, about the documents of sale with Gideon’s signature on the dotted line.
The more I think, the angrier I get.
And the angrier I get, the more I want to burn this place to the ground with everyone in it.
I’m locked up tight in this designer prison cell, the door opening only for meal deliveries. The same man brings the tray every time– tall, middle-aged, and built like a linebacker. He says nothing, but gives me a nod each time, like he knows I’m watching for patterns.
The tray is always covered, the food always bland. No forks, no knives. Nothing that could be wielded as a weapon. I refused to eat anything the first two times. Then hunger won.
I can’t stop wondering if the food is drugged somehow– if they’re dosing me with tranquilizers or mood stabilizers or whatever the fuck you’d need to make a girl forget she’s being auctioned off to the highest bidder. If they are, it isn’t working. I feel more awake than I’ve ever been.
This solitary confinement is clearly engineered to fracture my psyche, but I’ve never minded being alone. There’s safety in solitude. Not to mention that after months with the Kings, I’ve become fluent in the language of suffering. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than four white walls and a locked door to break me.
I’m curled on the bed when the door chirps and slides open.
It’s the same uniformed man as always, but the meal tray he usually carries is conspicuously absent. He steps inside, filling the doorway with the breadth of his shoulders, and meets my eyes.
“Get up.”
His voice is so deep it feels like it vibrates my bones, but it’s not enough to make me move. I just blink at him, caught somewhere between willful defiance and just not giving a fuck.
He exhales slowly and folds his arms across his chest, staring me down. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, with hair shaved close to his scalp, gray bleeding in at the temples. The mostintimidating thing about him isn’t his size or that unflinching stare, though– it’s the scars. Thin, pale lines crisscrossing his face like souvenirs from a lifetime of violence. I try not to stare, but I fail.
Something in the set of his jaw tells me he’s in no mood to repeat himself and will take me by force if necessary. So, I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The metal cuff shifts around my ankle as my feet touch the floor– a quiet reminder that if I step out of line, they’ll fry me again. My hands tremble, but I clench them into fists and stand.
Without another word, he turns and steps back into the hallway, clearly expecting me to follow. I hate that I do. But if there’s any chance for escape, it’s not within these four walls. It’s out there.
The hallway is exactly as I remember– bright white, windowless, and lined with doors spaced evenly between backlit nature panels. The guard moves down the corridor, and I trail after him, tense and alert.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice hoarse from lack of use.
He grunts, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Your first tattoo removal session.”
“Oh,” I breathe, swallowing thickly. My hand unconsciously drifts to my left butt cheek, fingers brushing the cotton of my pants where the Kings’ brand sits hidden beneath.
I should be relieved they’re burning that mark off my skin, but gratitude curdles in my throat when I remember they’re only erasing it so I can be rebranded. Repackaged and sold off to someone else.
Even though it takes two of my steps to match one of his, I quicken my pace until I’m walking beside him.
“I’m Ava,” I say.
“I know who you are,” he murmurs, eyes forward.
“It’s polite to introduce yourself in return, you know.”
He abruptly stops, pivoting and fixing me with a look sharp enough to peel paint. “Caleb.”
“Hi, Caleb,” I reply, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “So what, are you my babysitter?”
“I’m your handler,” he answers flatly.
My chin dips in a slow nod. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
His jaw tightens. “No more questions,” he barks, turning on his heel and continuing down the hall.
At the end, he hooks a left and raises his smartwatch to the panel beside a secured set of doors. They click open with a sterile beep. I hurry to keep up, matching his stride down the next corridor, refusing to fall behind even when I have to work twice as hard to do it.
“I’m just trying to understand how all this works,” I say, injecting a note of reason into my voice, trying to appeal to his sense of human decency. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m here against my will. My stepfather–”
