I imagine it tastes exactly how her soul looks.
I squeeze my eyes shut, working to regain control over the screaming in my head, before I rise up again, keeping my eyes downcast. If I look at her, she’ll see death in my eyes.
As if sensing this, she bends at the waist and curls her finger beneath my chin, the cold metal of her ring seeping into my skin as she lifts my head.
“I know it hurts but hesitate again and your teeth will be kissing the floor instead.”
Swallowing down vomit, I nod my head and whisper, “I’m sorry.”
She smiles prettily and straightens, satisfied.
“Each second you hesitate is another reason to punish you. Your master will expect obedience. Mindless little zombies, you will be.”
Sydney giggles, raises her arms, and moans like an actual zombie. My eyes widen, and none of us can contain the shock, staring at her like she’s insane.
Well, no shit, I guess. The bitch is insane.
Francesca snarls, storms to her, and slaps her across the face, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing in the room. Her head snaps to the side, strands of hair flying across her face from the force. Disturbingly enough, Sydney peers up at Francesca through her hair, another laugh releasing from her tongue.
Francesca bends at the waist. “You keep laughing, Sydney, and I’ll keep letting Rocco stretch your ass until my entire foot fits.”
I swallow, looking back down to the floor. She’s fucking certifiable, and I can’t help but feel a stab of sympathy.
Was Sydney an average girl before she was stolen away? Did she live a normal life, have a job, friends, and go out on weekends to find a fling?
Who was she before she died inside?
After an entire day of grueling training on how to serve our future masters, dinner is served in our rooms. None of us are allowed to eat together and I imagine it’s because they don’t want any of us becoming friends—joining forces and planning to escape together or some shit. The more alone we feel, the more hopeless.
We’re fed soup and crackers, a meager meal but something she claims won’t fatten us up. Apparently even sex traffickers are fatphobic and body shame the women. Never mind that they can’t get pussy unless they quite literally steal it.
I’ve just finished eating when it sounds like Francesca screeches from below, the enraged sound echoing throughout the house. I freeze, slowly setting my soup bowl on the nightstand when footsteps pound on the wood, though, it doesn’t sound like she has her heels on. Her angry stride travels up the stairs and down the hall, my heart beating faster with each step toward me.
My door slams open, and she storms into my room, the doorknob deepening the crater in the wall from the force.
I flinch and jump up from my bed, heart racing as she stomps towards me and sticks her face in mine.
“You were doing so well,” she spits.
My mouth parts and I shake my head, speechless as confusion and adrenaline war in my brain.
“Wha—”
“Don’t play stupid,” she hisses before backhanding me, fire lancing across my cheek and a gasp slipping free.
Instinctively, I grab my cheek, shock rendering me utterly paralyzed.
I look at her just as she shoves a shoe in my face. Or what used to be one. It’s the same ones she was wearing earlier—the same ones she made me kiss and lick—black stilettos with gold heels. Except now, the gold spike is cracked off at the base, barely hanging on, and deep scratches mar every inch of it.
“You did this,” she accuses. “You did this to all my fucking shoes!”
I shake my head again, eyes wide and protests falling from my lips. “I didn’t, I swear, Francesca. I didn—”
Another sharp slap to the same cheek cuts off my truth. Her chest heaves with anger. Heat radiates from her in waves, solar flares of fury lashing at me as she seethes.
Tears rush to my eyes, and I shake from the effort to keep them from falling. I don’t want to show an ounce of weakness. She’ll take the tears for guilt. My vision blurs and colorful words gather on my tongue. It takes several swallows to force them back down my throat.
“I saw the look in your eyes earlier, diamond. Don’t pretend like you weren’t planning my death. You’re a spoiled little brat and doing this—” she shoves the shoe in my face— “will do you no favors.”
“Fran—”
“Shut up!” she screeches, completely losing her mind. She grabs my hair and yanks me down onto the ground, fire racing across my scalp. I cry out; the sound quickly muffled when she shoves my face into the wooden floor and starts yanking down my leggings.