I wake with a higher fear threshold than usual. Where the fuck am I? I keep my eyes shut, resisting the urge to flee. That is one of my big problems—act first, suffer the consequences later. Usually, the action involves my potty mouth, but I’m a master of getting out of sticky situations. Or so I like to think.

I thought I knew all there was to know about pain; turns out I don’t. Every fucking cell in my body hurts. Serves me right for opening my goddamned big mouth and back-talking Viper. My mouth spews out crap faster than my brain can engage. The fucking bastard damned near ripped my nipple off before he stuck his hand between my legs. I kept telling him to fuck off—okay, so I said it in my head, but I ached to scream it at him. Then, just once, it slipped out. Oops. He threw me against the wall while he tried to get in my pants. I spit in his face. Before I even had time to breathe, he’d slammed my head into the wall so many times I lost count and consciousness. He probably threw in a few more kicks for good measure if my aching sides are any indication.

Just when I think I have a few minutes reprieve, another of the bastards appears. A shroud of gray misery surrounds the latest guy who wants a piece of me. He and his little slut stand there looking down at me, no doubt wanting to inspect the goods. Pervs!

His eyes meet mine and clear as the veil covering them lifts for one split second, revealing bronze eyes shimmering with gold light. Those stunning eyes meet mine and see beneath my mantle of darkness directly into my soul. He sees me. A frisson of emotion shoots through me, and every neuron in my body flares to life. Just as quickly, it skitters away leaving me with the only thing I ever feel—emptiness.

Okay, I have a sliver of interest as I look into the wolf eyes of this latest scumbag who thinks he can own me. For a split second, his eyes shimmer with compassion before his badass-playing-with-his-prey persona drops into place. He stopped Whippo from kicking and hitting me. I begrudgingly give him that. The asshole didn’t know what to do when he faced that solid wall of muscle. Watching him stutter was enough to make me smile . . . Almost.

Whippo isn’t a badass. He just wants his piece of the action. More than that, he wants to keep his job. I found out that and more when he brought me soup last night. He makes a big show of throwing his weight around, but he hasn’t hurt us badly during the three days I’ve spent in this dump, so far. If we let him cop a feel, he goes away happy. Not that it matters. I’m oblivious to the pain.

There are only two things I’m good at. I’ve managed to survive in this world largely because I’m damned good at reading people. I’m also one hell of a good manipulator. I excel at finding a person’s inner wound, the one thing that will make them cry like a baby if I apply the screws just right. Yeah, yeah; that’s three things. Otherwise, I’m nothing more than an ugly little black plaything who men brutalize to satisfy their perverted prurient desires. And this is a world in which I have extensive—and very limited—experience. I’ve never dated. I’ve been raped. John’s have jumped me. Slam, bam!

What have I learned? I don’t like sex. Not at all. Not with men . . . and not with women either. I actually met a nice guy once who did his ultimate best to help me see how much fun sex could be. Nothing happened except for a large degree of genital irritation. That guy lapped at my pussy for days before he gave up.

So, no, I don’t get why folks are willing to risk their fortunes and reputations for a few seconds of endorphin-induced bliss. Yet, the way sex makes people act fascinates me. They could get more out of a good meal, and it lasts longer—yet they’re willing to lose everything for what they hope will be that next great fuck.

I lie, feigning sleep and doing a good job of my invisibility act until Whippo kicks me. I should just stay put. I should keep my mouth shut. But then, my life story is one steady stream of should haves. I guess my evil stepfather is right—I have to learn everything the hard way. So, I do what comes naturally and lash out. It’s an autonomic response.

Maybe my bratty finger would’ve stayed put if I wasn’t scared to death about the upcoming party where I’m billed as the guest of honor. The party where each perv pays one thousand dollars for the privilege of using me any way he sees fit while he tries to break me as Viper puts it. The party where Viper plans on cutting off my clit if that doesn’t work. The party where they’ll use me until I bleed out.

Whippo grabs me by the scruff of the neck and hoists me in the air. The intense pain adds accelerant to my fury, and Wolf Man’s announcement that they’re taking me away fuels my fear. Then that bitch in the spike heels tries to play nicey-nicey. I tense my muscles ready to—

She pinches me hard. I struggle. She holds tight. Darkness descends.

I startle awake, and panic surges through me. I lie very still and take inventory. I’m still dressed, if you could call the rags I wear clothing. I’m in a warm room, in a soft bed smelling of lavender fabric softener. Terror subsides to my usual level of anxiety. I strain my ears to hear. I listen with every fiber of my being but hear nothing but birds chirping and leaves rustling. The room smells wonderful—like lilacs and beautiful, clean, fresh air. Curiosity dims my fear. I open my eyes a sliver and scan the room without moving my head. No one there. I open wide and gingerly pull up on my elbows. Still no one around.

Putting my senses on full alert, I search for the presence of a guard. There’s no one there. I turn my focus inward. And just like that, without warning, my brain ramps into hyperdrive. I let anger cover the intense fear threatening to overtake me. Fear of my evil stepfather, ES. Fear of Viper and his gang of pimps. Of this bastard who took me away from my little sister, Summer. The only thing I care about. And, of course, the blond bitch. Pure, unadulterated rage. I feed on it. Blocking out any other thoughts.

My cockroach of a stepfather sold Summer and me a couple of weeks ago to pay off his fucking gambling debts. I’ll do anything to pretend I’m not scared out of my fucking mind. Why me? Why does this shit always happen to me? And why the fuck would ES sell Summer? Sweet Summer who’d never hurt anyone in her life. Who had no will to fight. She’d called Viper Daddy the first time. Me, I spat in his fucking face. Nobody would own me.

Not Summer. She was on automatic the third day out. Not me. The drugs weren’t enough to block out the heavy, sweating bodies pumping away. They were insurance—keeping me dull-witted. Viper had one of his pimps with me every step. What had we ever done to deserve this? I give my head a mental shake and stop the slide down Pity Party Lane. Time enough for that later.

Summer. I focus inward to that spot where I connect with her. I call it my spidey sense. When I tune in, all I get is murky fog. At least she’s alive.

I have no new injuries except for a bruise happening where that blond bitch pinched me. If I ever see her again, I’m going to let her have it with an AK-47. I might be small, but I have a tongue that will rip you to shreds when provoked.

That bitch did something to knock me out. My mouth is dry, and a wide band of pressure rides tight around my head, joining the myriad of tells decorating my body— tells that scream the story of how I survived. Did the bastards drug me? A fat lot of good it would do them anyway. Viper wouldn’t stop until he found me. I shake the thought away. This is my life at the moment. Deal with it.

I stifle a groan of pain as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My head swims. I rest a minute, forearms on my skinny little thighs. When the nausea passes, I raise my head. I’m exhausted. The luxurious bed beckons me, teasing me with the promise of oblivion.

Where the fuck are my glasses? I’m blinder than a bat without them, and they’re like a security blanket for me. I find them on the ornate bedside table and slide them on. New lenses. They fixed them. Is this some kind of trick to make me feel grateful before they beat me down?

I almost gasp at the luxury surrounding me. I’m on a queen-size bed with a dropped ceiling forming a canopy—that is, if you can call eight feet or so dropped. To my left is a window stretching the full twelve feet from floor to ceiling. The view—some huge body of water, like an ocean. By the looks of things, it’s well past noon. Where the hell am I?

The room is fucking huge. Midway across, a dividing wall houses a glassed-in gas fireplace. A round wood table with a bunch of comfy-looking chairs sits on the other side, a large vase of lilacs at its center.

I get out of bed, heart hammering in my chest, waiting for the next wave of horror to descend on me. I learned a long time ago that anything good is soon followed by a whole mess of hurt. I hold my breath and stand stock-still, funneling all my attention for any sign I’m not alone. No Viper, I’d sense him. Besides, he would be tearing the place apart by now to find me.

After a few stretches to work out the worst of the kinks, I roam the room, checking things out while I await my doom. I don’t know a lot about decorating, but everything looks ultramodern and über-expensive. I want to get the hell out of here, but I know better than to go wandering. I itch to do just that. Oh yes, I could sashay down the hall and right out the front door. Tracked by surveillance cameras, no doubt.

I jump at the knock on the door. Should I slide to the floor, assuming the position? That would probably be the smart thing to do, but every part of me rebels against letting my new captors think I’m an easy target. If I’ve learned anything since, it’s to assume the position, play dumb, and keep quiet—something I usually fail miserably at doing. Trouble walked out of my mouth shortly after my birth and hasn’t stopped moving since.

The knock comes again, harder. “For Christ’s sake, Destiny, would you open the goddamned door?” It’s the bitch.

Adrenaline pummels through my veins. I decide to test the waters, knowing it could lead to a beating. Might as well know the cards I’ve been dealt this time.

“Leave me alone.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Something bangs on the floor, then the door swings open. Bitch bends down, picks up a loaded tray, and drops it on the table. She turns to face me, hands on hips. Sabers shoot from her eyes, and they sure as hell aren’t lightsabers. I slide to the floor.

“Get up off the goddamned floor.”

I stay still. Better safe than subdued.

“Fine, stay there for all I care. Your brunch is on the table. Eat. Looks like you haven’t had a good meal in months.” Bitch presses a button, and the windows shade. Smart glass. Cool! I thought that only existed in movies. Wherever I am, they have a lot of money. A shitload. She turns toward me, and I cast my eyes down lickety-split.

“I put some clothes in the dressing room. They’re probably a bit big, but they’ll do for now.” She gestures toward me. “Throw those out.” She starts for the door. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

“What’s your name?” I hold my breath, waiting for the slap. Women tend to be far more vicious than men if given a chance . . . Just because they can be. Or maybe they’re just doing the turnabout is fair play thing. I’ll never be like that. Right.

“Are you talking to me?”

I nod, eyes still glued to an invisible speck of dust on the floor.

She laughs. “Name’s Sasha Byrne. Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Your rescuer is Jaden. Now, get up.”

Here it comes. I suck in a breath, getting ready for the next onslaught of pain. I stand but keep my eyes locked on that nonexistent dust bunny.

Sasha stands in front of me. I try not to flinch. I hate pain, but I hate letting others see my weakness even more. Her hand swims into my field of vision. I try not to cringe. She takes hold of my right hand. Strong, warm fingers wrap themselves around my rigid ones.

She wants to shake hands? I gingerly wrap my fingers around hers. She squeezes firmly and shakes.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, what’s your name?”

Play stupid. Play stupid.

“Destiny.” I study her from my peripheral vision. She towers over me like some kind of Amazon warrior woman, although in actuality she’s probably only around five eight without those ginormous stiletto heels. Slim, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, she wears her jeans and cropped leather jacket as if they’re painted on her rather muscular body. I hate her already. And want to be just like her. She turns to go.

“Okay, we’re around whenever you’re ready to talk. Your choice. You’re safe here. I’m going away for a few days, but Jaden’s here if you need anything. I suggest you rest and get better.”

You’re leaving me here with him? Alone? My mind screams in alarm.

“Where am I?” How do I know it’s safe?