Chapter 9

I was taken by rope leash to shower.

I’d learned to live with the pain in my joints and muscles—they reminded me of my past victory, not weakness.

A badge of honour.

Once I was clean, Jagged Scar pulled me down the corridor and up a flight of stairs.

This part of the house, factory, trafficker hotel—whatever it was—was different.

Ugly artwork graced the walls, and the room he shoved me into was a normal study.

Glass windows with an industrial view, a desk, chairs, and a man reclining, stared at me.

He was as white as me with blond hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes—the same bright blue as Jacobi.

My heart twisted.

Jagged Scar forced me into a chair, but I never took my eyes off the man in a business suit.

“Who are you?” I rasped.

The man narrowed his eyes, placing palms on the desk. Jagged Scar retreated to lurk by the wall.

Tingles of fear darted down my back, but I refused to bow to terror any longer.

I’d drawn blood—that counted for something.

“I’m the man who holds your fate in his hands.”

“I’m the only one who owns my fate. Not you. Not your guards. Not your sick operation. No one.”

He chuckled.

“derek was right. You’re a fighter.” He leaned forward, twirling a pen. “Being a fighter is what gets you killed. You should let go. Let us guide you.”

Derek? Was that Leather Jacket? I twitched in anger. “Let you guide me to my death by rape and itmutilation?”

He leaned back as if I slapped him. “Stupid girl. If you behave, you will be sold to a gentleman who will treat you like a prized possession. Lavish attention on you. Buy you whatever you want.”

My mind ran crazy. I was to be sold into sex slavery, into bondage.

“I am nobody's possession.”

He shook his head, smiling. “Ah, but you’re wrong. You already are. Sold. Contracted. The deed is done.”

My heart tried to claw its way out of my throat, but I sat frozen, brave. “You won’t get away with this.”

He stood and threw a package into my lap. I caught it on reflex, horrified to find my photograph on a fake American passport, and papers written in Spanish.

“Already have, pretty girl.” He came to the front of the desk, stopping in front of me. He trailed fingertips along my cheek, just as gentle, just as adoring, as Brax used to. “What is your name?”

“You’re not worthy of my name,” I snarled, trying to bite his fingers.

He stepped back, laughing. “Well, I hope you are worthy of the client who bought you. I don’t do refunds.” He nodded at Jagged Scar, who’d snuck up behind me. “Do it.”

My world ended as hands smothered my face, pressing a rag, reeking of chloroform against my nose and mouth. I tried not to breathe, fought to get free, but the fumes stung my eyes, entering my bloodstream.

A fog descended, whispering and stealing.

Unconsciousness claimed me.

Anonymous pov:

I see her now, standing there, broken but alive. Her gaze flickers toward the flames, toward the devastation, but there’s something else in her eyes. A quiet acceptance, a dark resignation.

She thinks she’s safe. She thinks they’ve saved her. But they haven’t.

I approach her, slowly, deliberately, making sure she feels my presence before she sees me. The men are distracted, patting themselves on the back for their “heroic” efforts, but I know they’ve done nothing.

I take a step closer, and her eyes meet mine. Her breath hitches. I see it—the recognition. She’s seen me before, somewhere in the distance, but she hasn’t known me. Not truly. Not until now.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. She just watches me, her gaze wary. I smile to myself. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’ll need me. She’ll need me in ways she can’t even comprehend.

“I thought I lost you,” I say, my voice a low rasp, the words a promise.

Her lips part slightly, confusion clouding her features. She doesn’t know what to make of me. But that will change. They all will change.

I take another step, this time right into her space. She doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

“I’m here now,” I whisper.

And this time, when she looks at me, I see something in her eyes—a flicker of doubt. She knows, in the deepest part of

her soul, that I am the one she’s been running from. But it’s too late now.

She’s mine.