Gray didn’t dare move a single muscle. He’d woken up in a big bed with his hands bound to a hook in the bedpost closest to his head. Someone had reset his shoulder after it was dislocated. Blood and tears stained the pillow, tears that continuously streamed down his cheeks. He hurt everywhere, and that included his ass. The man—this motherfucker they called Mr. B—had knocked him out and raped him.

Said man was in the stateroom right this second, one of the reasons Gray kept quiet and still. He had his back to Mr. B, who sat at the desk that faced the window. There was a mirror on the door to the bathroom that let Gray see what was going on behind him, and he couldn’t look away from Mr. B’s broad back. And the daylight. The tears were oddly soothing, like balm or aloe, and allowed him to stare directly at the blue sky without his eyes burning. Or perhaps his eyes had gotten adjusted to the light again.

He wasn’t ready for the terror to continue. Judging by the number of scars that graced Mr. B’s back, he was into some dangerous shit. If Gray didn’t know better, he’d say the man had been flogged or whipped to the point where his skin had cracked. The long slashes were long since healed but had once been deep cuts. One scar on his shoulder looked like it could be from a gunshot wound.

“There are painkillers here.” The man speaking up sent a jolt of shock through Gray, and he tensed up. “I’m guessing you’re hurting.”

“Fuck you.” Gray’s mouth got the best of him, and he instantly regretted it.

Idiot!

With no sudden movements, Mr. B rose from his chair and rounded the bed. Gray refused to face him, instead waiting for the punishment he’d get for insulting his owner. God, he wanted to die. He no longer saw a way out of this unless it involved a body bag and a tag on his toe.

Mr. B was only wearing a pair of dress pants, and from one of the pockets, he produced a switchblade that he ejected from its sheath.

Gray, having nothing left to lose, kept his stare trained at the mirror, though he could see the man’s movements in his periphery. “Did you bring a knife to a gunfight?”

“I was unaware you had a gun.”

Of course he didn’t have a fucking gun. “Red pointed out to me that maybe a shooter would be interested in me.”

“Red…? Ah, you mean Valerie.” Mr. B walked closer and sat down on the edge of the bed, and Gray fought the urge to scoot back. “Shooters are heroin users. As in, shooting up. In this industry, they’re known for keeping their slaves drugged.”

“Okay.” Gray waited for anger to rise at the use of slaves. Mr. B had said the word casually. Like they were discussing a game or the damn weather. But the anger didn’t hit. Perhaps he really had surrendered and accepted his fate.

Heroin didn’t sound half bad, though, a thought that resonated loudly as Mr. B dragged the sharp point of his blade along Gray’s hip. Bad time to realize he wasn’t wearing anything but a sheet that was riding low.

“Do I have your attention?”

Gray jerked a small nod and closed his eyes.

“Good. Now, look at me.”

He didn’t want to, but his free will didn’t matter anymore, did it? He squeezed his eyes shut hard, then opened them slowly as two tears rolled down onto the pillow. Next, he slid his wary gaze to the man, seeing him in broad daylight for the first time. He remembered the hazel eyes. They were accompanied by faint crow’s-feet at the corners. A five o’clock-shadow dusted his jaw. His expression was grim, and he looked to be in his early forties.

Gray furrowed his brow, a niggling sensation trying to jog a memory. He had seen this motherfucker before. Back home. He was almost sure of it. He just couldn’t pinpoint when and where. Christ, was this how the slave traders knew who to kidnap? Had this man stalked him, maybe even talked to him, then decided to buy Gray?

“You recognize me,” Mr. B stated.

Gray didn’t reply.

For whatever reason, that made the asshole’s mouth twist up a fraction. Then he stood up and grabbed a chair, dragging it over to sit down by the bed. Elbows resting on his knees, he did absent tricks with the blade and stared at Gray, as if he was thinking of what to say. Gray found himself staring at the knife.

He had no doubt the man could use it well. His stocky, yet sculpted chest bore other scars. One that matched the one on his shoulder, making Gray wonder if the bullet had gone straight through. Under his left pec, chest hair didn’t grow because of a four-inch line that’d been stitched poorly at some point. His other pec was covered in a tattoo that traveled up to his shoulder and across his bicep. Despite being less than five feet away, Gray couldn’t make out the details of the ink.

“I’m gonna have to hurt you if you freak out.” Mr. B kept his voice low and his stare grave. “Can you listen to what I have to say without losing your temper, Gray?”

Gray opened his mouth to mutter a sure, only to snap it shut. He used my name. They probably had his name in his file, but it felt…off. Nobody used his name. His identity didn’t matter to these people.

“There are cameras in this cabin.” Mr. B gave him a pointed look. “There’s no audio, but Valerie and her crew can see everything we do.”

“Okay.” It meant nothing to Gray.

Mr. B flipped out the blade again and wagged it lightly at Gray. “If you’re wondering if I’ve fucked you up the ass, the answer is no. If you believe I own you, that answer is also no.”

What the fuck was up with this moron? The soreness in Gray’s ass sure as hell wasn’t imaginary. “Whatever you say.” He gave a flat look.

To which the motherfucker sighed. “All right. Listen, knucklehead. Your pop gave me unlimited funds to track you down and bring you home.”

Gray merely smirked. Was the man trying to mess with his head? “Uh-huh.”

A crease appeared in Mr. B’s forehead. “You don’t believe me?”

“Given that I don’t have a dad, no.” Do your research better next time, jackass.

The man narrowed his eyes. “Aiden Roe.”

Okay, that did the trick. Aiden hadn’t been part of the family that long, so it was still an adjustment. Though to an outsider, of course he was Gray’s dad. He’d certainly shouldered the role better than anyone else.

“My stepdad,” Gray rasped. His heartbeat drummed faster and faster as hope flared to life. Did this mean he was gonna see his family—wait. Just like that, hope could crash and burn too. Someone who’d tailed him to gather information would know about Aiden.

“Semantics.” Mr. B furrowed his brow. “I have a message from your mother that’s supposed to help. Just remember to calm your tits. I really don’t wanna slice you open.” He paused and looked at Gray intently. “Under the old chair in the break room at the bed-and-breakfast, there’s something that you and your ma keep hidden.”

Gray blanched at that. He immediately knew what the man meant—and what it referred to. It was such a silly fucking secret. And such an emotional roller coaster it took him on now. He could feel hysteria claiming him again, and there was no holding back the hope anymore.

“Do you mean it?” he choked out.

“It’s what your mother said.”

Oh God. Could it really be…?

“You have to cut me,” Gray gritted. Because a slap wouldn’t make him cry. A mere discussion wouldn’t move him to tears either. Mr. B was gonna have to give it to him good for the cameras.

Sensing the imminent breakdown, Mr. B cursed and stood up. Then he towered over Gray and held him in a light choke hold.

“Do you really mean it?” Gray croaked. “Am I gonna survive this?”

“Yeah. You are.” Next, he pushed the blade against the fleshy part of Gray’s thigh. The man knew exactly where to cut to make it look worse than it was, and as the blood began seeping freely, Gray let go. A low sob broke free, then another, and another. His hands were tied, so he hid his face against his shoulder, and he cried like a fucking baby.

Months of panic, anguish, hunger, nausea, thirst, deprivation, pain, and fear rolled off of him in heavy waves.

He truly hadn’t believed he was ever gonna see his family again.

Part of him still didn’t. He was just so desperate he’d cling to anything.

Please make it true.

“You need to at least pretend to struggle, Gray,” Mr. B said quietly. “You ain’t the type to just take it.”

Gray whimpered, fresh tears rolling down, and offered a lame attempt to fight for his life.

Even with the pain of the new wound—and all the old ones—a big grin threatened to break free. Maybe he’d lost his mind. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Mr. B did. “Don’t you fucking dare. Hold yourself together. They could be watching every goddamn move.”

Gray couldn’t help it. The frenzy of joy that surged in his veins unleashed a crazy little laugh, and he smiled even as he cried.

“For chrissakes.” The man had reached his limit. Pocketing the knife, he smacked Gray’s bloody thigh—hard—and then backhanded him across the face.

It was enough pain to override the relief.

“Ow!” Gray let out a hoarse cry and turned his face into the pillow.

Okay, I’ll be good.

* * *

A trip to the bathroom gave Gray a bit of clarity, not to mention time for countless questions to pile up. The stateroom and its bathroom were lavish and screamed of wealth, with the exception of certain details whispering of cruelty and terror. Like hooks in the walls and furniture. One of his hands was cuffed to a metal hook above the toilet paper dispenser, and he had to let the man know when he was done.

“You can come in,” he said as he yanked up his underwear and flushed the toilet. His black boxer briefs were loose on him, and they belonged to the other guy. They were brand-new. Still had the creases from being folded in the packaging.

Mr. B entered, and Gray went from being cuffed to one hook to another, this one above the sink. He really went all out not to raise any suspicion.

“Are there any cameras in here?”

“Above the mirror.” Mr. B leaned against the doorway, having put on a white button-down, though it was unbuttoned. A black tie hung around his neck too. “You’re dizzy.”

Gray lifted a shoulder, then cupped his free hand under the pouring water and splashed some on his face. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

“I’ll call for lunch. It’ll be a while before we get outta here, so we need to talk. And you need to look like you hate being here.”

Gray nodded once. “Sorry about before.” It bothered him that he had no control of his emotions.

“No worries.” Mr. B jerked his chin at the bedroom. “We’ll talk while I dress your wounds. They can’t blame a guy for wanting his property in good condition for more torture.”

There was no stopping the shudder for Gray. He let the guy lead him to the bed where he was restrained once more, and he sat back against the headboard. First, Mr. B dialed room service, like this was some swanky hotel, and next, he grabbed a briefcase that revealed medical supplies.

Gray remembered a briefcase from last night too.

Three of them were stacked on the desk.

“What happened last night after you knocked me out?”

Mr. B’s features tightened, and he focused on cleaning the long cut along Gray’s thigh. It stung, though it was nothing in comparison. “They expected a show, so I had no choice but to give them one.” He cleared his throat and flicked his gaze toward the briefcases. “I’m impersonating one of those shooters, by the way. I have enough heroin and other drugs to kill a horse over there.”

Gray wasn’t too surprised, mainly because he’d been out a long time. It didn’t matter how skilled Mr. B was in combat; a punch didn’t keep someone down for that many hours. He must’ve injected Gray with something.

“It was the most humane way I could think of. Whatever I did to you, you would have no recollection of.”

“My ass does hurt, you know.” A bit of anger and shame colored Gray’s cheeks.

Mr. B inclined his head and wiped away the last of the blood. “I sized you out for toys and marked you.”

Gray averted his eyes instantly. It seemed anxiety and a bunch of other useless emotions were never far away. What he’d learned now was a punch in the gut, and he was embarrassed. Embarrassed, angry, and hurt.

“How did you mark me?” His voice grew low and dull, and he stared at his lap.

“They tattooed a barcode on the back of your neck,” he said. “To showcase my ownership, I carved in numbers below it.”

Carved.

“I don’t feel it,” Gray whispered. This clusterfuck was getting to be too much again—too overwhelming. Maybe this guy would free him. Maybe he’d get to return to his family, but he carried doubts about whether or not his body was still his. He’d never felt so violated.

He didn’t necessarily blame Mr. B for that. Just…this whole mess.

“You will.” Mr. B bit off a strip of surgical tape and finished dressing the wound. “The lidocaine wears off pretty quickly. Eventually, so does shock.”

What else had he been up to while Gray was dead to the world?

“Are you really here to save me?” He needed reassurance.

“Yes, Gray.”

“How can I be sure?”

The man flashed an ounce of sympathy, though that was it. However, Gray could hear it in his voice when he spoke. “If the message from your mother wasn’t enough…” Mr. B eased off the bed and used the chair instead, where he retrieved a crumpled pack of smokes and lit one up. “You’ve probably seen me around.” He blew some smoke toward the ceiling. “Like most other kids involved in sports in our town, I’m guessing you go to the gym down on Hemlock.” So he was a local? He was from Camassia too? “That’s my little brother’s gym. Ethan Quinn. According to my research, you went to private school, and seeing as Camassia only has one, I’mma venture a guess and say you’ve heard of Avery Becker.” Well, yeah. Social studies teacher at Ponderosa High. “He’s one of my closest friends.”

Gray stared at him and didn’t say a word. He also grew more conscious of the cameras, for once, and he did his best to look angry and broken and miserable and not at all hopeful and wistful.

“My youngest sister,” Mr. B went on, “beat you and your family last summer at the festival’s apple contest. Elise’s popsicles against your mother’s apple cider and pies. If I remember correctly, your twin brothers got pissy.”

Gray pressed his lips together in a tight line, even though he wanted to cry from sheer happiness again. Hearing these inconsequential—in the grand scheme of things—little anecdotes brought forth enough memories that he could practically smell the forest from back home. He could taste the sea in the air, hear Gabriel and Gid bitching about that woman’s popsicles, which was promptly followed by Mom chastising them and lecturing them about sportsmanship. Afterward, Mom, Aiden, Isla, and Gray had bought some popsicles from Elise’s stand.

They’d been awesome.

Gray took a wild guess and assumed Mr. B had nothing whatsoever to do with his real name.

“You’ve probably been to my restaurant in the marina too,” he said. “But most of all, I know Madigan and Abel.” Holy shit. Gray’s heart thumped wildly at the mention of his best friend and his fiancé. “It was Madigan who asked me for help and introduced me to your folks.” He leaned back and buttoned his shirt, one of his feet coming up to rest on the edge of the bed. “Anyway. I’m Darius Quinn. Keep that name out of your mouth while we’re here.”

Gray’s eyes welled up, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Your dad pays well.”

Oh, so that’s how it was gonna be. Fair enough. “Do I wanna know how much I’m worth?”

The left corner of Darius’s mouth turned up. “That answer will always depend on who you’re asking.”

“I’m not worth much to slave traders,” he pointed out. “What did I go for, three hundred and fifty thousand?” Everything that happened last night was fuzzy at best.

Darius nodded once. “We like to think we’re worth more than we are. These types of auctions…they’re more rare. Wealthy men who lead secret lives have specific requests and tastes. I can get an orphan for a few bucks in Cambodia, a ladyboy in Thailand for a couple grand…” He started tying his tie with practiced ease. “Right here in the Land of the Free, I can get a domestic girl for twenty thousand.”

“You’re not serious.” Gray was fucking horrified—or he would be, if he could get a grasp on his emotions.

“As a heart attack.” Darius rose from his chair and grabbed his polished shoes. “Human trafficking is as common as STDs, Gray. At the risk of crushin’ your ego, you were expensive because the organization had a dozen buyers who specifically wanted young gay men with athletic builds, Caucasian looks, and wholesome backgrounds. There was a demand, so the supply got pricey. You’re a secret trophy, nothing else.”

Gray felt like the world he knew was an illusion.

“You think that’s bad?” Darius drawled. “A big percentage of the sellers who offer up kids for a quick buck are their parents.”

Gray couldn’t even fathom that. It didn’t compute.

“Why the wholesome backgrounds?” Another thing that didn’t make any sense.

“A happy kid isn’t as equipped to deal when everything gets taken away from him.”

Jesus Christ. Gray could only shake his head. It was surreal how evil people could be. Taking someone’s freedom wasn’t enough. They had to twist the knife even more and find other ways to add to the suffering.

Darius didn’t seem bothered by it. “Sometimes, there’s a demand for the opposite. You can’t expect to use rhyme or reason with these people.”

“How come you know so much about it?” Gray eyed him dubiously. “You said you own a restaurant, and now you’re here…”

“I wasn’t always a restaurant owner.” Darius left it at that, and then there was a knock on the door.

Lunch had arrived.