My hands are sliding along the rough walls, while silently I’m counting to ten before I manage to pull myself up to move. It’s slow, deliberate counts. My body’s sore, my hands are tingling. All my muscles scream at the small movements I’m making. I’ve lost count of how many days I’ve been locked in here. My head’s still foggy from that day when I was collected.

I remember seeing his face, the pain and the promise he would come for me. Then nothing more. All black. And this is where I’ve awoken, in this place, and this has been where I’ve stayed.

How many days I can’t tell you, I don’t even remember if it’s morning or night. It’s hard to keep track when there’s no light, no food, and only a toilet. I’ve been eyeing that toilet now for what seems like hours. My stomach’s gotten to the point that it hurts so much I can’t move. No one has offered me food or water.

The jeans I was wearing when I was collected now fall from my hips, and if I stood, I know they would fall off me. So yeah, that toilet water is looking very good right about now.

There’s a sheet underneath my feet, and it’s all there is to sleep on. It’s damn cold in here, and I’ve become immune to the shivers that wrack my body consistently. I’m surrounded by cement walls and a high ceiling. There are no windows, just dank darkness and unending night. Maybe this is my hell. The punishment I’m receiving for loving him, for betraying her. This is the well-deserved penance I must pay.

Lifting my hand, I wipe my face trying to get my eyes to focus before I place it back down to move toward the toilet. My stomach’s worse now, the pain almost unimaginable. I need something to keep going, and it looks like this is my only hope—toilet water.

It shouldn’t kill me, right?

Trying to move my hands is harder than I imagine. They don’t want to move, at all. Pain and cold, two things that are causing my body to become more and more immobilized as the time wears on. My body’s aching, not hurting now but more like excruciating agony with each movement. My stomach seems to be throbbing the most—it feels as if it’s eating itself.

As I’m attempting to stand, I hear something. It’s only a slight noise, but I look up, and a pair of dark eyes are staring back at me through a small hole in the door. I gasp, and the eye disappears. Then the door opens, and I see light for the first time. There’s a man dressed in all black, and he steps into the room. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

Was he one of the ones that took me?

My memory’s not the best at the moment, but he must be.

Trying to get away from him is useless, I can barely move. He stops his boots inches from my hands which are spread out on the cold, damp floor. Daring myself to look up, I do, my eyes running the length of him. Black trousers, followed by a black shirt, his eyes dark and he’s smirking down at me.

He pulls out a bottle of water and dangles it in front of me. His eyes are teasing, but I know I have to drink that water. I manage to move my hand ever so slowly, but he tsks at me then the water disappears as he bends down, so his face is in line with mine.

“You’re a pretty little thing. He doesn’t really know what to do with you, yet. Considering he can’t fuck you and all.”

My insides scream. They’re not allowed, it’s part of his deal. For that part I’m thankful. He pulls the water bottle around in front of my face and then pours it over my head. My face lifts in an attempt to get some in my mouth, but the moment I get the first gulp he pulls it away.

“Maybe we can use you against Ryken. He does have everything he shouldn’t have.”

“Please...” I’m not listening. My eyes are glued to that water, it’s like a carrot being dangled in front of a rabbit. I want that water more than I want to listen to his drivel.

“Please what, Blondie?”

“Water, please.” I’m not above begging at this moment as my hand tries to reach out for it, but he just continues to smirk. Pulling the bottle away only slightly.

“You need to meet him first, Blondie.” He looks me over then shakes his head. “First, you’ll shower.” He stands and pulls me with his hand to a standing position.

I stumble.

Weakness wracks my body.

My knees quiver. My head spins so fast I swear I’m on one of those carnival rides. Amazingly, he puts his arm under mine and assists me along. Well, if you can call it assisting, more like dragging, but I’ll take whatever he gives me. I want to shower, more than anything. The thought of the water is what stops the screams that wants to rip from my mouth, not only due to the pain, but also from being terrified as he pulled me up.

The water bottle he was teasing me with drops to the floor, as he pulls me through the door that’s been closed for days. I hope the bottle stays there, so when I come back in I can drink it.

Light assaults my eyes.

Too much brightness, and not one person to be seen, as I blink rapidly trying to become accustomed to light again.

Water.

Food.

My body wants it, and it’s all I can think about.

As I walk, or should I say stumble, my jeans fall from my hips and I try to reach for them to pull them up but my hands ache, so I leave them where they are.

“Blondie.” He pushes me forward, and I land on my closed hands and knees. Cold water washes over me. My mouth opens quickly to have a drink, the water touching my dry and chapped lips stings. Yet, somehow it feels great.

“Barbie,” he repeats Ryken’s nickname for me, and I manage to turn to face him. The water’s still cascading all over me, and my mouth definitely doesn’t want to close as I lap at the water.

His eyes stare into mine then drop to my body. It’s then I realize my jeans are almost off me, and my now semi-white shirt is soaking wet. He can see everything.

Do I care, though? No.

My stomach sends shooting pains through it, as I try to stand but can’t. Everything’s still hurting. When will it stop? I start heaving. I have nothing to spew, but my body doesn’t know that, and I rock on my knees trying to stop the never-ending nausea.

“Feed her,” a voice snaps.

I end up dropping to the floor completely. My body now lies on the cold tiles as the water falls around me. There’s no strength left for me to do anything else.

“She’s just going to throw it up anyway.” That voice is his, the man that keeps calling me Blondie, but I don’t look up.

“That’s why you should feed her, you idiot.” The voice speaks again, and I recognize it’s a woman’s voice.

The shower turns off and straight away I miss the water and wonder if I’ll be allowed to shower again anytime soon.

I want that water.

Water is my friend.

These people aren’t.

Hands grab my arm. My arm’s always being pulled, and it’s bruised. The amount of times in the last week I’ve had my arm pulled is ridiculous. Bruising wraps completely around it, finger marks all blending and bleeding into one giant disfigurement, and I know he’s adding to it each time he grabs me. Making the bruises bigger, nastier, more vibrant in color.

“Get dressed and eat something, Blondie. Try to not throw it up.” He pushes me forward but still holds my arm, and now I’m in a room I’ve never seen before. It’s completely white. White tiles on the floor with a white bed, and on the bed, spread out, is a dress that’s also white. Next to the dress is some crackers. My feet manage to shuffle and move closer until I’m there. I fall down next to the bed, and my hands work fast opening the crackers. Funny how I can’t feel my fingers aching now. Each cracker I stuff down my throat quickly. So quick, I feel like one of those dogs that just inhales his food. Of course, it’s the wrong choice, I know by the fourth one that my stomach disagrees with what’s happening. That’s when their perfectly white room becomes a stained brown mess. Inside, although I feel terrible, something about me throwing up all over their pristine whiteness makes me smirk.

“Fucking hell, Blondie.” His footsteps come from behind, and he kicks me away from the spew, landing a kick right in my ribs making me yelp out in pain as I fall to the floor clutching them.

“Clean it up and get out.”

That’s the lady’s voice I heard earlier.

Looking up, an old lady is walking in. There’s an apron around her waist, and she has a kind face. She offers me her hand and doesn’t try to pull me up. For that I’m thankful. My arm’s aching, almost as bad as my stomach is right now. When I sit up, she looks at my arm then hits the guy dressed in black in the arm quite hard as he walks past.

“Ouch! What the fuck was that for?” His forehead scrunches up, and he glares at her.

“Look at her arm, you damn fool.”

He scoffs as he walks out, and I notice my vomit is no longer there.

How the hell did he clean that up so quickly?

“Now, I don’t want to be an asshole, but if you don’t get dressed soon, the boss man will become angry. And trust me, sweetie, he’s not someone you want to make angry.” She offers me her hand.

Placing mine in hers, she helps me up slowly and then reaches for my clothes. Undressing me until I have nothing on, she then passes me the white dress and smiles as it slips on me in a perfect fit.

“Why?” I ask. She’s the first person who’s been normal. Pleasant. Nice.

She walks behind me and starts brushing my hair. It’s knotty from not having it brushed for days. She has to pull hard a few times, but the pain doesn’t compare to the agony that’s wreaking havoc everywhere else, so it doesn’t bother me too much.

“We don’t always have answers for everything, Saskia. Some things are best not being known.”

Turning to face her, her old wrinkled face looks peaceful. But then I remember where we are. “Okay,” I say, nodding my head and turning back.

Closing my eyes, the first person that appears is Ryken. Then Livia. Then I see my shop. I miss it. I miss my shop more than I realized I would. Growing that business from nothing is something I’m extremely proud of. And to now have it taken away from me, it’s a difficult pill to swallow. I feel a bit delirious, my mind can’t seem to concentrate on one thing at a time.

“Now, some advice... nod your head... smile when asked... don’t ask any unnecessary questions. Do you understand me, Saskia?” She pulls hard on my hair when I don’t answer straight away.

“Yes,” I reply in a small voice.

The guy comes back in and looks at my arm, then his eyes look up to mine. “She ready?”

The hair brushing stops, and I realize he’s asking her not me.

“Almost.” Walking around, she pulls a toothbrush out, offering it to me, then points to the small white sink in the room. “Brush them.”

I do as I’m told on unsteady legs. My movements are deliberate, slow, measured, so I don’t fall over from the weakness I’m feeling. The older lady walks out the door, leaving me in the room with the man as I start to brush. Even brushing my teeth feels like an arduous task, every movement I make is tough for my body to undertake.

“It would be wise to not vomit again.”

I have no words to say, as I look up at him in the mirror and notice he’s watching me. Brushing my teeth, I spit out and rinse, and when I do he’s behind me again. His hand goes to touch my arm, I can see it in the mirror, and I pull it forward closer to my body, afraid he’ll bruise it even further.

He groans and reaches for my other arm applying pressure with his fingers. “Not much for the words are we, Blondie?” He pulls me out the door, then stops when the older lady comes back with a pair of white heels dangling from her fingertips.

“She needs to wear these.” She passes them to me then walks away.

What the fuck! High stilettos are expected to go on my feet in my weakened state? I wear heels, but these are next-level, and I know with the slightest twist my ankle will snap. I’m so unsteady on my feet as it is.

“You heard her, Blondie, put them on,” he barks out his orders.

I do as he says because as of right now I have no alternatives. He seems to be the only way I’m going to be getting water and food. And food and water is what I desperately crave right now to function.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He grunts. I slip the heels on but pull back, more afraid of what will happen if I trip. I’m so unstable and shaky on them as I stand. He grabs hold of me and looks back, his brows furrowed, and then he realizes it’s because of what’s on my feet. His grip relaxes a touch, and his stance straightens, but he holds me tightly as we walk to a black door which he pushes open.

“Best behavior,” he mumbles almost in a whisper.

Loud music is blasting. Lights are everywhere, strobing. We make our way through a throng of people and come to a sizeable u-shaped sofa with a table in the center. I notice girls drinking, and only one man is seated there and he’s surrounded by women. His eyes lift, and it’s right then and there I realize that at any moment this man could kill me.

Nothing about his appearance is light or kind.

He’s frightening and hard everywhere.

And the way he’s looking at me makes me want to use my fight-or-flight response, and believe me flight is winning hands down.

I’ve been collected.

And the man who collected me is also one of the most dangerous criminals in the world.