Once a Myth

I KEPT THE FLAMES of my hatred hidden as the man forced me into the dentist chair, wrapped the rope around my neck tight to hold me down, and kept my breathing as even as I could as they lashed leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles.

My towel loosened around my body, threatening to reveal things I didn’t want to expose, yet I didn’t fight as the buckles clinked into place.

I didn’t let them see the crawling claustrophobia that I struggled to battle from showing.

I’d lasted this long with silence as my weapon; I could last a little more.

The men muttered to each other in Spanish, looking me up and down as the one with surgical gloves sat on a stool and scooted between my legs.

My head fell back onto the sticky leather of my prison. My wet hair chilled me until goosebumps prickled all over.

My teeth chattered, but I clenched my jaw, refusing to give them one hint of my rapidly growing fear.

I clamped down on my bottom lip as grotesque fingers entered me. I stared at the mouldy ceiling while he touched places he wasn’t welcome. The violation reminded me of the bonfire night.

Of the boy who’d tried to feel me up. The night I’d given as an example of bad things to my teacher.

That was nothing, nothing compared to this.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Every molecule that made me me crawled.

Every inch of my personality was tested.

My hands wanted to curl into fists, but I prevented them.

My heart wanted to gallop, but I hushed it to stay slow.

The man between my legs looked up the length of my body, his finger driving in and out deliberately, his head cocked as if wary of my reaction. Wary because I wasn’t screaming or struggling.

Wary because I was totally untouchable.

With a grunt of displeasure, he ripped his touch away, tossed his gloves onto the floor, and scribbled something onto a clipboard.

With another grunt to his colleague, he snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and waited until the other man angled my wrist to face upward in its binds.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling.

I stayed unreachable from what they were doing.

I latched onto the knowledge that they weren’t worthy of my fear. A chant formed in time with my skipping, hitching pulse.

This is temporary.

Temporary.

Wait until you meet the permanent problem.

The monster who buys you.

Then fight.

Explode.

Never give up.

Until then…temporary,

temporary,

temporary.

I let the word keep my resentment and desire for revenge dormant while the whirr of a tattoo gun sounded, followed by the prick of multiple needles feeding ink into my skin.

I didn’t wince.

I didn’t object.

I just kept staring at the ceiling, my humanity unbroken and above them.

Temporary.

Temporary.

The tattoo gun finished.

I risked a look as he threw the gun onto the table, then wrapped my newly graffitied wrist with cling-film.

A barcode.

A symbol of sale and merchandise.

My heart skipped.

My breath caught.

It’s fine.

Temporary, remember?

Even permanent ink wasn’t so permanent.

When I was free, it would be removed by laser.

I would take great pleasure in deleting their marks of arrogant possession.

The men argued in Spanish. One pinched me hard on the thigh. The other jerked at my towel, exposing my breasts. They loomed over me, trying to catch my eye, but I just stared right through them.

I didn’t give them the satisfaction of acknowledging them.

They were nothing.

Nothing.

They are nothing.

Fire and fury escaped my antifreeze. It whooshed through my blood, heating it to a boil, scalding me from the inside out.

You. Are. NOTHING!

My nostrils flared with repugnance. My throat filled with revulsion. I wanted to shove the tattoo gun down their gullets and scribe curses upon their souls.

I was so close, precariously close, to snapping.

And if I snapped, I would lose it.

I would become wild like that girl Tess.

I would fight and battle and not care if they killed me in my war for freedom.

They smirked and waited for my final break.

They tasted it. They longed for it.

My eyes met theirs, and I released the snarl that’d tainted my tongue for days. “You’re worthless scum. No, you’re worse than scum. You’re the insignificant spore on scum.

“Do whatever you’ve been told to do and fuck the hell off. You don’t deserve my attention.”

I trembled with the vicious desire to bite off their noses and slash at their jugulars. I struggled to swallow back the righteous, murderous urges.

In this situation, violence was better than food or water. It was fuel that would sustain me for the trials ahead. And I flatly refused to waste it on them.

With a deep inhale, I forced my muscles to relax, my hands to splay, my lips to drink in oxygen.

Temporary.

Temporary.

They are nothing.

A sharp slap stung my cheek as the gynecologist turned tattooist let go of his frustration. “You are not better than us. You are a girl about to be sold. You are a fuck toy. A punching bag.

“A dead woman.” He fisted my breast and squeezed painfully, digging his nails into my nipple.

Tears sprang to my eyes, but I endured the pain.

I did not flinch.

I did not cry.

I just kept staring at the ceiling, commanding my blood to calm, my heart to behave, and my will to survive to stay stronger than my call to be feral.

When his abuse earned no reaction, the man let loose a stream of Spanish slurs and grabbed a sterile packet with a syringe.

The packaging crinkled and crackled as he tore through it.

The light glinted off a thick needle.

Nausea clawed through my tight control. I almost broke. I almost thrashed and begged not to be drugged or knocked out, but...I stayed as silent as a tiny mouse.

A mouse that could slip through cat’s claws because it was wily and quick and nimble.

That was me.

I would be that mouse.

I would slip free...eventually.

One man jerked my neck to the side, while the other happily caused me pain by shoving the needle into my flesh and shooting something inside me.

It burned.

It bruised.

I bit my lip to silence my internal and external reaction.

With faces blackened with hate for me, they scanned my throat with a technological device. Pain blazed as a small beep sounded, and they nodded. “Works.

“She is tagged.” The man tossed the syringe onto his tiny table of horrors, ripped off the gloves, and added them to the pile on the floor, then snapped his fingers. “Take her. Vamoose.”

The buckles were unlatched from my wrists and ankles, and the rope around my neck tugged until I collapsed off the chair. The towel slithered off my body. The twine cut off my air supply.

I battled with the urge to be above what they’d done to me versus the need to breathe.

Standing, I ignored my nakedness and reached, as regally as I could, to loosen the knot around my throat.

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, signaling 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-defense 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 cobweb-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.”

My chin tipped up. I actually looked into his eyes instead of through him. He was the one exception. “The only one who will fall is you.”

He chuckled. “I like your continued confidence that this will all work out for you.”

“One day…somehow, someone will come after you and make you wish you’d stayed fiddling with the stock market instead of women’s lives.”

Licking his bottom lip, he circled around me again.

My skin crawled, but I remained a naked, unfeeling statue.

“Don’t you want to beg?” His finger slithered over my shoulder. “Don’t you want to know what’s in store for you?”

“My questions won’t make a difference. My pleas won’t make you grow a heart and let me go.”

“Wise woman.” Chuckling again, he moved to the corner of his office and scooped up a pile of clothing. Throwing them at my feet, he commanded, “Dress.

“As much as I appreciate your body, I’m not one for sampling my merchandise.” His eyes gleamed. “Especially merchandise that has already been sold.”

My heart stopped.

Outwardly, I stayed standing and brave.

Inwardly, things crumbled. My stupid hope. My idiotic belief. The quietly ticking clock that promised rescue if I just clung to sanity a little longer.

His smile widened as if he heard my stalled heartbeat.

Tearing my gaze from his, I ducked to collect the offered clothing, wishing I felt as aloof as I did against his band of merry traffickers.

With him, I struggled to wrap the cloak of courage around me.

He knew.

He knew my bravery was a cracked and broken shield against the thickening fog of terror inside me. When it shattered for good, I would have nothing left. No weapons to use. No barriers to hide behind.

I just had to hope that I would face my final battle before I broke entirely.

Who bought me?

Who would purchase a person?

Fingering the rough cotton, I aired out the largest piece. The clothing was nondescript and meant to fit any body type.

A large grey jumper with long sleeves and heavy hem, a pair of white knickers, and two long black socks that reached my knees.

No shoes.

No bra.

No skirt or trousers.

But at least it was protection.

Pulling on the clothes, I tugged my hair from the collar, fanning it out as best I could so the length didn’t drench the back of my new wardrobe. I’d always had long hair.

As a child, I’d screamed when Mum took me to the hairdresser. I’d gotten in trouble at school if I wore it loose because it was too long.

It was more nuisance than privilege, but it was my favourite feature about myself, and I willingly paid the cost.

The American watched me dress. His quiet study erupted goosebumps that refused to obey me and vanish. A shudder also escaped my control as he cocked his head with appreciation.

“I can see why he asked for a girl of your description.”

I froze.

I did my best not to reveal my curdling panic.

The tattoo on my wrist itched with warning.

“Where are you from, my dear?” He rubbed his jaw as if he couldn’t figure it out. “You have English rose skin, yet an American accent. Your hair is dark but not black.

“Your eyes are light but not coloured. I’m guessing a generous B or small C cup.

“Your body is lean, so you’re aware of the merits of healthy eating and exercise.” Without waiting for any confirmation from me, he continued, “How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-two?

“Definitely no older than late twenties.” He smiled. “At least, your body says you’re young, yet…your eyes say you’re old. That you’re already jaded and turned inward.

“That you think as long as you stay in your mind, you’re untouchable.”

Stalking across the room, he cupped my cheek, injecting poison into my skin. “You should know that you are touchable. Very much so. In every way possible.” His hand slid from my cheek to my breast.

“Your new owner will make sure of that.”

I sucked in a breath as he let me go.

I allowed a moment of weakness as he turned his back, heading to sit behind his desk.

I collapsed into myself, trembling until my bones rattled.

But, by the time he faced me again, my nostrils flared once with air and my proud shoulders smoothed the shivers from debilitating fear.

Pulling out a file, he tapped it importantly. “Inside here are travel documents to fly you to your new master. We know everything we need to know to provide an adequate delivery to him.

“However…” He smiled as if he had every right to ask a tiny favour. “I would very much like to know your name. Other girls scream at me, some beg at my feet. Many cry. A few bargain.

“Yet you…you stare at me as if you’re above me, even while I hold your bill of sale.” His eyes narrowed with barely restrained monstrosity.

He had a talent like mine.

He could hide his true nature behind his gentile conversation, but beneath that lurked a man who got off on the capture and conquest of trading women.

I stepped toward him, steeling myself against his truth. “Why do you think I would share anything that belongs to me?” My voice resembled a tabby cat with unsheathed claws. “My name is mine.”

“That’s why I asked politely.”

I balled my hands, unable to stop myself. “Will you let me go if I ask politely?”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re smarter than that, and we’ve already covered that scenario.” Sighing with an undercurrent of respect, he said, “I’ll tell you what.

“Give me your name, and I’ll give you a tiny trifle in return.”

“What trifle?”

“What do you want?”

“My freedom.”

“Yes, but that’s already been purchased, my dear. You’ll have to ask your new owner about your fate. Maybe he’ll give you your freedom if you please him.

“Maybe he’ll kill you and grant your freedom that way. Or maybe you’ll grow old in service until the end of your sexual days. Either way... tonight you will be delivered to him.

“This is your one chance to ask for something before all those choices are taken away.”

“Will you hurt my family if you tell you who am I?”

He grinned. “Do you have a little sister who looks like you? Because I have another interested party who would look after her very well indeed.”

I ignored the desire to vomit at the thought. “I’m an only child.”

“Ah, that’s disappointing.” He smirked. “You have my word then. Your mother is too old. Your father is of no interest. I promise they are safe if you tell me who you are.”

“Send them a letter. Tell them what happened to me. Give them the name of the man who bought me. Give them a chance to rescue me.”

The man lurking in shadow let out a guffaw. The American snickered, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. “You have balls, girl. I’ll give you that.”

“His name for my name.”

He cocked his head, studying me deeper than he ever had. The moment stretched uncomfortably before he murmured, “I’ll send them a letter and tell them what happened to you.

“There will be no chance of rescue or details destined to set you free, but at least they will have closure over your disappearance. They will know they will never see you again.”

Tears pricked from nowhere, undermining my self-control.

The thought of my mother opening such a letter. The idea of my father learning his daughter was traded into sexual servitude.

No.

It would kill them.

But... if this was my last chance to say goodbye, then at least I could give them some resemblance of peace.

Even if I won’t earn any myself.

Bracing myself, I closed the distance between us and held out my hand over his desk. “Send them a letter saying I’ve eloped and found endless happiness.

“Tell them I’m happy and safe, and they never have to worry about me again. Tell them I’m selfish and cruel to disappear but I love them. For always.”

He stood and slipped his hand into mine. “Done.”

We shook.

We sealed the agreement.

I shivered.

I couldn’t help it.

The coolant in my bloodstream turned into ice crystals. The cage I’d placed around my heart webbed with thicker wire.

I was bartering with Lucifer... not for my own protection, but for those I would never see again.

His fingers squeezed mine, his eyes flickered to the man who’d moved from his spot in the shadows and loomed behind me.

I felt him there.

I heard him waiting.

My skin prickled.

My instincts cried.

But I completed my end of the bargain.

“My name is Eleanor Grace. And I will—”

A rag smashed over my mouth, stopping my oath. Preventing me from promising that I would win. That I would find a way to murder whatever monster who’d bought me and survive.

Fumes entered my nose, attacking my ability to stand.

My knees gave out as the world turned dizzy.

Bulky arms caught me, and the last thing I heard before everything went black was the American murmuring, “Goodbye, Eleanor Grace. Graceful to the end and elegant to a fault.

“Mr. Sinclair will enjoy destroying you.”