Jesus Christ.
“But if Mr. Reed wants first pick, of course, that can be arranged for the right price. Take a look,” Oscar says.
I’m sick. I’m seconds away from puking up everything I’ve ever eaten. My face turns green, but I’m not going to let Oscar know that. I don’t have a plan. Not yet, but I will.
I look over the women with a deep scowl, knowing I can’t save them. I can’t protect them.
I glance at the last woman, and my heart stops. I squat down in front of her, getting a better look at this exquisite creature.
The most alluring eyes look back at me. This woman isn’t scared. She’s full of fight. I see the wheels in her brain turning, determined to find a way out of this situation. She’s not going to go down without fighting.
But she’s going to lose. I know the amount of security Oscar has. I can’t save her. If I find her leaving, I will be forced to capture her and turn her back in. She needs to accept this is her new life. It will be easier for her.
But the fight in her eyes, long gone in the others, isn’t the only thing that makes me pause looking at her. There is something else about her. Something that has my brain spinning, trying its best to remember why I know her. A wash of déjà vu crashes through me when I look at her.
“Aww, this one is going to go for the highest price tonight, guaranteed. She’s beautiful and a fighter. The others are already broken. She’s going to make me a lot of money. I’d guess three million. The men prefer a fighter. They want to be the one to break a woman. And she is begging to be broken.”
“Where did you find her?”
“This one washed ashore during the last storm. The ocean finally gave us a gift for once.”
The ocean.
Julian didn’t pull me from the ocean.
This angel did.
Siren—that was her name.
I still owe Julian for getting me medical attention, but I don’t owe him as much as I first thought. Because Siren was the one who pulled me from the ocean. She stopped me from drowning. She put her hands over my wounds to keep me from bleeding out. She sang to me to keep me calm. She dragged my lifeless body to her car. She brought me to the only person on the island with the money and power to save me.
And what did the world give her for saving me? Imprisonment and the verge of being sold into sexual slavery.
She glares at me. She remembers me. And she hates me. She blames me for her predicament. And she thinks she saved a monster. She thinks I’m just like the men who took her.
I stand up. “How long until the event?”
“Three hours.”
I nod. “We better get ready then.”
“Excellent.” Oscar starts gabbing about everything still to be done. I barely listen, though. All I can think about is Siren. About how she saved my life. And now, I have to save hers.
5
Siren
I hate silence. But I hate the sound of sniffling even more. It’s like someone is stabbing my ears with knives. That’s the reaction I feel every time I hear a sniffle, a cough, a muffled cry. Not because I care or have a heart for the other women who are captured with me. I do, of course, have a heart. I want them all to find their way out of this mess the same as me. But right now, I can’t think about escaping because my brain is consumed with sniffle, drip, sniffle, cough.
Fuck, I grab my ears with my hands trying to get the sounds to stop, trying to get the anxiety building in my chest to dissipate. But it only grows. There is a name for my condition—misophonia. It means normal, ordinary sounds cause a visceral reaction in my body. Usually, I can avoid the sounds. If someone is slurping too loudly at a coffee shop, I can leave. If my friend is chewing too loudly at dinner, I can talk over the noise. If someone is sneezing on the bus, I can play music louder in my earbuds.
But I can’t do any of those things right now. I’m stuck in a cage with a dozen terrified women. A hundred more are tied up nearby. All of them releasing a cacophony of various noises in the otherwise silent room. No one dares to talk, too afraid they will become the first victim to be beaten, raped, or sold.
None of them understand it doesn’t matter if we are the first or the last; we all face the same fate. We are all about to be sold like cattle. We have all lost our dignity, our human right to freedom. We are now property.
Deep breath in and then out, I practice my calming technique, and I feel the anxiety lower an inch from my throat to my chest. Most people think anxiety is all in your head; it isn’t. It takes over everything in your body. Your stomach aches, your chest pounds unable to catch a breath, your throat closes up, your mouth runs dry, and even your bones throb from the anxiety. Relieving a single one of those pains is a success in my book.
“What do you think is going to happen?” the woman to my right whispers into my ear. She’s dressed in a gray suit, with a white blouse underneath. Her blouse is now covered in dirt, her mascara is running down her face, and her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week. I would guess a week ago she was a high-powered lawyer or businesswoman—now she’s nothing but tears. But she is strong enough to ask me a question in the silence even though there are guards watching us. I admire her bravery.
“They are going to sell us,” I say flatly, not sugarcoating our outcome.
The woman grips her neck, as if she can’t believe her fate.
“For what purpose?” her voice is weaker now.
I blink rapidly, looking at her. She can’t be serious? Does she not realize there is only one reason to sell another human being? Money. These men want money. And the men who are buying us want power. They want to control us, live out their sick fantasies, rape us, torture us, and, the kind ones, kill us.
But I see her trembling hand; I see the tears welling up in her eyes, the way she bites her bottom lip. She’s about to break out into an uncontrollable sob. That’s a sound that will rip right through my body and bring back every drop of anxiety I was feeling.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Alice.”
She doesn’t ask for mine. She’s too focused on her own fate to see that she isn’t the only woman who is about to face the same outcome.
“Okay, Alice. Are you married?”
She shakes her head.
“Have a boyfriend?”
Again she shakes her head no.
“Kids?”
No—she was probably too focused on her work to date. She seems like a smart, ambitious, gorgeous woman in her late twenties. She probably never bothered to date. Now, I’m sure she wishes she did. Then maybe she’d have that love to focus on. That strength to pull her through this. That hope that her man would come and save her. That fairytale that love conquers all, that it ultimately wins.
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” She asks.
“Sorry,” I say, thinking about how love only makes you weaker, not stronger. By not falling in love, this woman proved her ultimate superpower. She is strong enough to handle anything on her own.
I grip her shoulders and look her straight in the eyes. “Alice, you are strong. You have not only survived these last twenty plus years without a man, but you have thrived. You have become a fierce, badass woman. No matter what happens, you lived a great life. And you are strong enough to handle whatever is coming your way. Remember that.”