Page 35 of Her Mercenary
Hours passed. Outside the window, the moon slowly rose.
I was still handcuffed and chained to the bed naked—well, semi-naked, I should say. I’d draped the suit jacket the King had left over my shoulders, threading my unchained arm through one of the sleeves.
The smell was him, the soft buttery fabric was him.
The comfort was him.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d left the jacket on purpose.
The night was relatively quiet after the King had left me. A few screams and howls came from the basement below, eventually fading to silence as I assumed the slaves fell asleep. Based on the position of the moon, it was midnight, possibly early morning.
The guards had begun their usual evening of debauchery, drinking, smoking, doing whatever drugs were available. The heavy thud of bass echoed somewhere down the hall, the mind-numbing pounding punctuated by occasional drunken laughter.
I searched for his voice, his laugh, but there was nothing.
Where was he? Where did he go?
Was he with the guards? Indulging? Laughing? Tormenting women? Was he evil like them?
Why hadn’t he returned?
I hated myself for how long I’d contemplated that last question. The screwed-up part of it was that I blamed myself. I’d convinced myself that I—my face, my body, my manners—weren’t good enough for him. That’s why he hadn’t returned. I wasn’t desirable enough, attractive enough. He’d probably gone on to find another slave, to spend the evening with her.
I’d fucking spread my legs for the man, open and willing—wet, for Christ’s sake—and yet I still wasn’t good enough for the King. There were slaves better than me.
I needed to be better at my job.
It was the mindfuck of all mindfucks. The kind of thought process that the world of human trafficking made you think was normal. Truly, I was becoming brainwashed.
I was changing. I could feel it in my bones, my soul. This life was beginning to change who I was at my core, and I hated it.
My attention was pulled to footsteps coming down the hall, and my heart skipped a beat. I pushed off the bed and stood tall and strong, my shoulders back.
The brass doorknob turned, the door opened, and two guards stumbled into the room, stinking drunk, their eyes ablaze with drugs and lust.
My stomach dropped to my feet, the instant shot of panic ripping my breath away.
One of them closed the door and locked it behind him.
No.
No, no, no.
Their beady black eyes locked on mine as they crossed the room, licking their lips like dogs. One was no more than twenty years old, eighteen maybe, wearing a pair of baggy jeans with holes and a black T-shirt. The other, at least fifty, was dressed in army fatigues.
They spoke quietly to each other in Spanish, wicked grins cracking their dirty, acne-scarred faces. They were here in secret. The King didn’t know. And they were up to no good.
No, no, no.
The older guard spat on me.
I forced my eyes to stay open, my demeanor stoic while I felt the disgusting slime slide down my cheek.
Do not let them see you cry.
The men stripped me of the King’s jacket and pushed me onto the bed. The older man spat obscenities at me while the teenager laughed. I got the sense the man was training him. How to be an evil rapist, how to fit in among the worst humanity had to offer.
They unzipped their pants, stumbling and grabbing onto each other for support while muttering snide remarks back and forth. The smell of sour liquor filled the air.