I was valuable. I had to stay strong and survive.

I hung over the kidnapper's shoulder, being carted to who knew where, and something happened.

My mind fractured, literally unthreaded, splitting into two entities. The girl I was: my hopes and dreams, aspirations and love for Brax all blazed bright and true. My insecurities and need for love saddened me. I saw my own fragility.

But that didn't matter, because the other part-the new part-was fierce. This girl had no brokenness or issues. She was a warrior who'd seen blood, stared monsters in the face, and knew without a doubt her life would be hers again.

Somehow the new part wrapped around the nucleus of the old Tess, protecting, cushioning me from the horrors to come.

At least, that's what I hoped happened.

I truly, truly hoped.

The hood was ripped off my head, taking some hair with it. The rest arched and spat with static electricity. I blinked, light saturating my eyes as everything shone with overexposure.

I was in a room.

Dark, dingy, not a dungeon, but not far off. Bunk beds lined each of the four walls. The lack of windows, and dampness from the floor, settled fast into my bones.

I sat on a threadbare mattress, looking around my new home. Girls huddled on each bed. All of them wore an aura of tragedy, eyes bruised with loss, skin painted with injuries and shadows.

A man loomed over me, his beard black and gross. Reaching behind him, he bared a knife.

I flinched, and tried to crawl away. Some part said he wouldn't hurt me. Not yet. But the other part saw the knife and cowered.

I knew what a knife did. It cut things. Butchered things. I didn't want to be butchered.

The man grunted, digging fingers into my shoulder, pressing me into the dank mattress on the bottom bunk. I yelped as he rolled me onto my belly. I kicked and twisted, trying to stay upright, fighting an already lost battle.

The motion of sawing caused the string around my wrists to bite deep into sore skin. The blade was blunt and it seemed to take forever before the bindings finally broke.

The man released me, backing away with a scowl. I slowly sat upright, rubbing my wrists, skin indented and heated with a raw, angry red.

"You. Stay." He jabbed a finger in my face before stomping to the exit. The heavy, black door opened and he disappeared. The room echoed with a loud click as the lock slammed home.

The moment he was gone, I gawked at my new roommates. Only a few girls met my eyes; the rest slouched with fear.

I couldn't stop staring. Eight bunk-beds. Eight women. All of us ranged from early to late twenties. There was no rhyme in our abduction. Some of us were blonde, others black, redhead, and brown. Our skin colour didn't match, either: three Asian, two black, and three white.

Nothing screamed pattern. The police wouldn't be able to work out who'd be the next victim-it seemed any woman easy enough to steal was fair game. Whether we were tall, short, fat, slim. Big breasted, long legged. We were all there for one reason.

A reason I didn't yet know.

A reason I didn't want to know.

Hours passed while we stared at each other. No one talked-we didn't need to. We communicated in our silence, deeper than words. Our souls talked. We comforted one another, all the while sharing grief over what would become of us.

The flickering light bulb illuminated our cage, sending tension rippling around the room.

Some time, hours later, the door opened and a younger man with wonky teeth and a jagged facial scar appeared, depositing a tray of eight bowls in the centre of the room. The stagnant air of our prison filled with scents of food-something stir-fried with a platter of warm bread to scoop it up with. My stomach growled; I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

My heart stuttered, thinking about Brax. It seemed so long ago, sharing our first night in Cancun, enjoying our connection.

I forced myself to stop thinking about him. It hurt too much.

No one moved, but we all stared longingly at the food once the door locked again.

I waited to see if there was a hierarchy.

No one budged.

The scent of dinner overwhelmed, and I couldn't stand it any longer. I needed my strength to fight. I wouldn't sit waiting-who knew when they would come for us.

I moved.

My body creaked and protested, but I stood and collected a bowl at a time, handing it with a piece of flat bread to each girl.

They gave a timid smile, a glassy look, a flush of tears. I took comfort in helping them. At least they weren't alone. We were in this together.

When I delivered the last bowl and took my own, I had to swallow my tears. They threatened to drown me if I let them loose.

Brax. My life. My happy, happy world dissolved and left me in hell.

I didn't belong to Brax anymore. I didn't even belong to myself. I belonged to a bleak, unknown, and terror-filled future.

Swallowing hard, I forced the tears away. Tears were not useful, and I refused to buckle. Taking a mouthful of gruel, I hiccupped and steeled myself.

I would not cry.

Not tonight.

Chapter Five.

Fantail *

For two days, the little room was my world.

Food came twice a day, giving us something to break up the monotonous waiting. Fear of what would happen siphoned away with every tick of the clock, leaving me devoid, empty.

The remaining hours were spent staring into nothingness, or staring at each other.

A few women chatted in hushed whispers, but I didn't. I sat in a cloak of silence and plotted. My freedom had been taken, but I would take it back.

All my life I'd been meek and a doormat. Even with Brax, I never had the strength to speak the truth. That all changed in the two days I sat in contemplation. I put away my fear of being reprimanded, and embraced ferocity. I conjured anger like magic, nursing it deep within, building on it like an impenetrable cape. Never again would I hide my true feelings, or fail to chase what I truly desired. And what I desired most was freedom.

Our food was delivered by the same young man with the scar running from eyebrow to jaw. Whoever had sewn the injury did a hash job, and skin puckered in such a way I would've pitied him, if not for the fact he was in cahoots with my kidnappers.

He wasn't big, but moved with strength belying his scrawny frame. I watched closely, gauging if I could tackle him, if the other women would help me.

Even if the women did rally together, how far would we get? There were guards outside the door, and I didn't know what was out there. City, forest, urban, or country. No point making a move until I knew. Knowledge was power, and surprise was key.

It was the evening of the second day when the door slammed open. It wasn't dinner time and my heart rabbited when Leather Jacket prowled into the room. Predatory eyes immediately fell on me. All my plotting and scheming evaporated as he grinned nastily, heading straight for me.

Fear sprinted through my blood, flaring my aching body, a reminder danger lurked in every inch of this place. Complacency wasn't a good idea.

"Come with me, slut." Fingers wrapped around my sore wrist, yanking me upright. Licking cracked lips, he dragged me toward the door. No! I wouldn't go, not like this.

I locked my knees, bare feet scrambled to find purchase on the old floorboards, but I couldn't get traction. He tugged hard, slamming me against his gross body. The leather jacket reeked of sweat and metal.

The women started crying, a wail of confusion puncturing the once heavy silence. Our little oasis in the madness was shattered.

I squirmed, trying to tear fingers off my wrist, but he reached back and slapped me. My cheekbone blazed with pain; I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Obey! Unless you want to be knocked out again," Leather Jacket snarled. Readjusting his grip, he dragged me down a rank corridor. My face smarted, but I quickly pushed the discomfort away. Pain was a distraction, and I needed to focus.

Men, all dark-haired and grim, dashed past. A woman cried, then screaming joined the horrible symphony. My heart went out to them. It wasn't just me they'd come for.

My pulse thudded every metre Leather Jacket carted me. We passed door after locked door, until he shoved me forward, sending me tripping into a shower block. Multiple showerheads, cracked white tiles, and well-used soap bars littered the floor, like a gym or a jail.

Oh, God.

Leather Jacket jerked my shoulder, swivelling me to face him. "Strip."

A burst of defiance blossomed, and I spat in his face. No way would I undress in front of him. I couldn't. Only Brax had seen me naked-that was his gift, no one else's.

Fuck you. Fuck all of this. I'd never been so gung-ho or courageous, but everything about me had changed. It was time to embrace the new me.

He chuckled. "So, you like it rough, bitch." Before I could duck, his fist connected with my cheekbone, shattering my vision into pieces. Oh, God, the pain was so much worse than a slap. I moaned, clutching my face. I'd never been hit before, but this was the third time in a matter of days.

Hands grabbed the collar of my t-shirt and yanked. The sound of ripping material echoed in the tiled shower block. I whimpered as fresh air licked my exposed stomach and chest. The haze of pain slowly left, and I feinted to the side, trying to get away. But he wasn't suffering from a punch to the jaw and caught me.

He grunted, slapping me again. "You're a wild one. But that won't save you. It'll just mean you won't get the good buyers, and you'll end up drugged and brain-dead." He leaned in and licked, dragging his foul tongue like a Labrador over my cheek, right into my hairline.

I shivered, repulsed.

"If you want another fist to your pretty face, move again," he coaxed.

Already, a hundred galloping elephants lived in my skull, I couldn't handle more. My soul wanted to fight, but my body stayed still, obeying.

"Good girl," he cooed, reaching for my leggings and pulling them down in one swipe. A sharp tug on my hip broke my knickers, and hands fumbled behind to free my bra. It fluttered to the floor, leaving me the most exposed I'd ever been.

Naked, I stood in front of a rapist, kidnapper, and evil, sadistic son of a bitch.

I trembled, clasping arms around my exposed chest. The man chuckled, eyes raping me with a transfixed stare. "You've got nice tits. You can't hide them forever. Get in the shower and wash your filth." He shoved me toward the soap littered area.

I stumbled, but went willingly. It meant I was away from him, away from his stench, his rottenness. Don't think about him looking at you. None of this can affect you if you don't let it.

Holding onto the thought, I stooped to pick up a dry piece of soap.

More women arrived, corralled by hard hands and vile men. Each one was subjected to the same treatment, minus the beating, and I turned away as their clothes fell to the floor. The guy with the scar gathered the belongings and disappeared. The wardrobe of our past lives. Gone-just like that. It symbolised more than just undressing us-it was a message: they owned us. We no longer had the right to wear what we wanted, go where we needed, love who we adored. We were reduced to nothing but naked, trembling girls.

The starkness of our reality hit some women hard, and they crumbled to the floor in tears, only to be kicked in the stomach and forced to crawl into the communal shower.

I swallowed salty tears as I turned on the tap, attempting to froth the age-grimed soap.

The water ran cold, but it was heaven to clean away gunk and hardship. I didn't like to think about the reason we were being made to wash. That was the future-a place I couldn't think about. I focused on the present, keeping sane by not letting my imagination run wild with horror.

Bubbles slowly formed on the soap, and I spent the next ten minutes rubbing it over my skin, lathering my hair. I wanted to wash away what had happened. Wishing the water would take my unhappiness and gurgle it down the drain, taking me, too. Surely, the sewers would be a better existence.

"Enough!" a jailer shouted.

We obeyed, rinsing under the cold spray, and proceeded to where a pile of moth-eaten towels lay on a bench. I wrapped a discoloured towel around myself, and a rope came from behind, noosing around my neck. I jumped, clawing at the tight bondage.

The man with the jagged scar came into view, tugging gently. "You are no longer whoever you were. You are to forget about your past 'cause you will never see it again."

He leaned forward, and I froze. I underestimated him. Because he brought us food, I stupidly thought he was nicer than the others, but he wasn't. The same blackness lived in him, too.

"Follow." He strode off, yanking the rope. My back arched with the pressure, forcing me to trot to catch up. I'd been demoted from human to dog with just one act.

Lowborn reactions rose; I wanted to growl and sink my teeth into his arm. If he wanted me to be an animal, I could be an animal.

The shower block disappeared as I padded behind by leash. Where the hell is he taking me? I squeezed my eyes closed. I didn't want to know.

What if, now I was clean, they were going to rape me? Put me in some whorehouse and force me into a sea of chemicals and drugs. I'd never return to who I was. Never get free.

No!

I slammed on the brakes, digging bare feet into the floor. My toes ached as Jagged Scar slammed to a halt. My neck screamed as the rope pulled tight, choking.

"Move!" Jagged Scar glared, pressing his body hard against my towel-wrapped figure. My entire being rebelled at being so close, but I gritted my teeth. I wouldn't step away in defeat. I wanted to hiss and head butt him, but I stood there, glaring into his endless black eyes, standing as regal as possible.

"No. I will not move. You have no right to treat me or the other women like this. Let us go." My voice wavered with fear, my heart wild. I could lose my life by disobeying, but I couldn't go down without a fight. I couldn't give up so easily. I let my family walk all over me-I wasn't about to let these bastards do it, too.

A gathering of shocked murmurs rose behind me. I glanced back, horror widening my eyes. My roommates were roped and standing in line, like sheep to the slaughter.

They were shoved out of the way as Leather Jacket stormed toward me. Jagged Scar dropped the end of my rope, stepping backward.

Oh, shit.