I don’t need to be an expert in the skin trade to know that no one wants to eat a bruised apple. They want nice, shiny apples to sink their teeth into and rip apart themselves, piece by piece.
Francesca sniffs, peering down at me with disdain. Blowing out a slow breath, I meet her stare, working hard to keep even a hint of anger out of my eyes.
“Obedience is the number one thing I ask of you. I personally don’t like to administer drugs to keep the girls compliant. I like my girls lucid and in control as it makes for a better experience for our buyers. No one wants a drug-addicted whore who can barely keep her eyes straight and fist a cock properly. That means if you disobey me or fail to do as I instruct, you will be punished. Understood?”
I drop my eyes before she can see the emotion spit from them like grease in a hot skillet. Swallowing down the rock in my throat, I choke out, “Yes, ma’am.”
She makes a sound of aversion. “Never call me that. Reminds me of my mother,” she snaps, muttering the last part.
“How would you like me to address you?” I ask, finding the courage to look up and meet her eyes once more.
I know what I’d like to fucking call the evil bitch.
Rio chortles from the doorway but sobers when Francesca shoots a pointed look over her shoulder.
She trains her narrowed gaze on me, seeming to contemplate something.
“Just call me Francesca,” she responds. “Rio here is going to implant a tracking device and tattoo your Slave ID. Everyone gets one, and they will only be covered once you have your master.”
My heart shrivels and dies the moment she mentions a tracking device. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but it sends a fresh dose of panic into my bloodstream, twisting my gut painfully. Tears begin to burn the backs of my eyes, the hopelessness deepening.
“Yes, Francesca,” I force out, my back hunching from the emotions circulating throughout my body, so potent that they nearly disintegrate my spine and send me crumbling to the floor at her feet.
As temporary as it is, she appears pleased and heads for the door, pausing to look Rio in the eyes and order, “Keep her sedated. We’ll let her heal for a week before she’s required to acclimate in the house and begin her lessons. You broke her, you fix her, so she will be your responsibility until further notice.”
His lips tighten, but he nods. Despite the fact that I was just told I’m going to be tagged like cattle, there’s a pinch of relief circulating throughout my body. The second she disappears, firmly shutting the door behind her, I get up as quickly as my broken body can handle and shuffle towards the bed, flopping down on it.
An angel and a devil rest on my shoulders; the soft one coaxing me to curl in a ball so I can shatter into tiny pieces, while the other yells at me to keep fighting—to not break down like all hope is lost.
Keep it together, little mouse. You’ll survive this. You will.
Steeling my spine, I force the tears back. I have at least a week before I’m thrust into the thick of what it truly means to be human trafficked. A week to be ignorant of the horrid things they do to girls here.
Rio grabs a black bag from atop the dresser next to me. I had noticed it when I first entered the room, and since then, I’ve treated it like a bag full of snakes. Seems I wasn’t far off in thinking so. The bite of a python would feel no different than being permanently branded.
Holding my breath, I eye him closely as he approaches me, his weight compressing the edge of the lumpy mattress. Slowly, he unzips it, the sound tearing through my nerves as it does the bag. Next, he pulls out a small tattoo gun, ink, and what looks similar to a piercing gun but… not.
“Tracker first,” he announces, holding up the torture device. He grabs a tiny microchip from the bag, inserts it into the gun, and then twirls his finger, signaling for me to turn.
Apprehensively, I face away from him, shivering when I feel his fingers brush across the nape of my neck as he gathers my hair to the side.
“It’ll hurt,” he warns a second before a sharp stabbing pain pierces my neck. I yelp, wincing, two seconds away from whirling around and slapping the shit out of him. My vision blurs with tears, but I can’t tell if it’s from the pain or because I have a tracking device inside my body.
I turn back around, shooting him a nasty look to cover up the fact that I’m on the verge of crying. He ignores it, opening a new needle and preparing for the tattoo.
“Where’s this one going?”
“On the wrist.”
I rear back when he lifts his hands towards my arm, attempting to stall. “Do you do this often?”