The man with nose hair and bad breath blew putrid kisses at me, grabbing his crotch and promising, “If you not sell tonight, I have you. I’m gonna stick this inside you and find a way to make you scream.”

I allowed one act of rebellion.

Two, actually.

One, I gave him the finger.

Two, I strode toward the door without waiting for him, without my towel, and unlocked the handle before storming forward.

My long hair clung damply to my back. My bare skin puckered with cold. The rope snagged tight before he lurched into action and followed me.

The captor following the captive.

He yanked on my leash, signalling to go right instead of left back to the bunkroom. I yielded to his direction. No other girls. No familiar darkness.

I was once again on my own.

One step in front of the other.

Head held high.

Spine braced.

Was Scott looking for me?

Had he alerted the authorities?

Had he been proactive and reported my disappearance or slow to make a decision, thinking I’d gone off on my own?

Our fight a few days before my abduction came to mind.

I’d wanted to travel to Asia next. He’d wanted to go to South America and Mexico. Normally, we could compromise, but I’d found out he’d promised a friend that he’d be in Cancun for a bachelor party next month. I felt cheated out of decision-making, and he was pissed at my unwillingness.

The joys of a new relationship.

The struggles of knowing how to find common ground.

But despite our little domestic, surely he would know I wasn’t the type of girl just to walk out after a spat? I was loyal to a fault. I would never cheat or backstab. I would always accept if I was wrong and do my utmost to fix a problem or have the courage to admit it wasn’t working.

The trafficker slapped my ass, dragging me back to hell.

I didn’t look over my shoulder.

He spat at me.

His horrid saliva trickled down my shoulder blades, sticking in my long hair.

I didn’t even shudder.

“Puta,” he hissed. “You notice me. You respect me.”

I didn’t stop walking.

I probably should have stopped walking.

I shouldn’t have been so bold in my dismissal of his control. One moment, I was free, the next, a sickening hug enveloped me, his arms coiling tight, squeezing me into him.

His tongue entered my ear.

He ground his erection into my lower back.

His lust was a vile, villainous thing.

I almost snapped.

I almost let out the blood-curdling scream that lived just above my heart. I almost sliced him with every nail I possessed.

But I bit my tongue.

I endured.

He gyrated against me. “Maybe I buy you. Use you for one week and then kill you.” He grabbed my hips and pistoned hard into me. My breasts jiggled. My stomach threatened to evict its measly contents.

I just waited for him to stop.

Temporary!

It pissed him off.

It was the last straw on his temper.

Shoving me to the floor, he jerked at the rope around my neck, strangling me from behind. Instinct shot my hands up to link fingers under the twine, pulling at the tightness, seeking air.

Flipping me onto my back, he grunted and snarled in his mother tongue. He punched me in the temple. Lights flashed. Pain swelled.

The sound of his belt clinking open was the universal warning of a man about to take what wasn’t his. He tried to shove my legs apart while fumbling at his crotch, reaching for the organ that would never get within an inch of violating me.

I snapped.

Sipping on small amounts of oxygen, I released the rope and rammed my palm up against his nose. After the bonfire, I’d taken self-defence lessons. After understanding that, as a woman, not all men were trustworthy, I traded some of my naivety for preparation.

Blood spurted from his face, raining over my mouth and chin.

He screamed and punched me again, this time in the jaw.

I moaned as pain compounded on top of pain.

He drove his hips into mine. He hadn’t pulled his cock out, and he deliberately dry-fucked me with the zipper of his jeans and the metal of his belt.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

But at least, he wasn’t inside me.

I aimed again, using my sharp nails to lacerate the thin flesh behind his ear.

Another yelp followed by a manic filthy curse.

He wrapped both hands around my throat, digging the rope into my skin, strangling me with a demonic look in his weeping eyes. Blood dripped from his broken nose, staining the hair sticking from his nostrils a bright crimson.

Pride had been a helpful tool, wrapping tight around my rapidly fraying outrage. Unfortunately, it had also been my downfall.

A door opened as more instinct overrode my carefully controlled reactions and electrocuted me into fighting. I kicked and fought. I grunted and scratched.

I didn’t want to die thanks to this lowly henchman.

I didn’t want to be wasted like this.

Stolen and barcoded, tagged and inspected, only to turn into unsaleable produce on the corridor floor.

Legs appeared above me.

Pristine white slacks and polished silver shoes.

Instantly, the man crawled off me, wiping his bleeding nose on the back of his hand and bowing in submission. He spoke in Spanish, but I understood by his gestures that he was begging not to be punished. That he was sorry for his attack.

I let him plead for leniency while I eased myself upright and snatched the twine from around my neck. Throwing it away, I rubbed at the column of bruised muscle and swallowed past the swelling.

“Are you quite well, my dear?”

I hid my surprise at his cultured refinement, standing slowly and blinking past the pain. I turned to face the newcomer but kept my features schooled and silent.

He appraised me like one would judge a filly at a yearling sale. He held no animosity or contempt, just a thin veil of satisfaction that I seemed to be intact and still sellable. Nodding in welcome, he stepped back through the door he’d appeared from. “Come.”

Weighing my choices of disobeying and earning more bruises, or following and finding out my fate, I stepped into his office.

The room held a cob-web-covered chandelier, a cluttered desk, and the aura of shattered dreams. He moved to rest his ass on the desk, crossing his arms expectantly.

The man who’d hurt me entered, jabbering in Spanish, pointing at me as if his attack was provoked entirely by my actions. Through his animated speech, the other man never stopped looking at me.

His white skin made him look American, instead of Mexican. A trust fund baby from Florida. His eyebrow rose from whatever lies the trafficker told him before a smile twisted his lips. He could’ve been called handsome with his white trousers, crisp baby blue shirt, and bright blue eyes.

But he was the head devil in this disgusting den.

The ringleader.

But also…temporary.

Temporary.

He pushed off from the desk, waving at his minion to hush. “You may leave.”

The man paused with his mouth open, unfinished with his tale, but with a flash of loathing at me, he nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

He left us in silence.

In the gloom behind me sat another man, clad in black and poised in shadow. The American tried to convince me he wasn’t a threat, but I tasted the hazardous menace in the air.

He inserted his hands into his slack pockets and eyed me up and down. “So, you’re the quiet, silent type.” He smiled. “They’re the ones who have the farthest to fall.”