Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Behind me someone yells “Salem!” like they know me. But I ignore that too.
One step past the boundary and the park sound cuts off like a door slammed shut. The air turns cool, damp. The asphalt smell is gone. Just pine needles and that coppery bite—like blood on your tongue.
I stop and listen.
A leaf rustles. This is the part of the movie where I should return to the safety of the skate park. I should head home. I’m twenty-two and not a kid anymore. What am I doing?
But I keep walking. I keep moving. Something shifts between the trunks. Low. Quick.
My pulse hammers in my throat. My face burns, then drains cold.
“Jules?” My voice cracks smaller than I want.
Silence.
I lift my phone—screen glowing like it’s gonna help—and type.
ME: where are you?
No answer.
A twig snaps behind me, making my shoulders jerk. Before I can turn, a hand slams over my mouth. Hard. My lips mash into my teeth as copper floods my tongue.
My phone flies into the brush with a resounding thud. The board drops. Orange flashes once, swallowed by shadow.
I thrash. I kick. I try to bite his flesh, but my mouth is squeezed shut. My eyes widen. Is this the end?
A man pulls me against his chest. My back to his front. He’s strong. Calm. Like he’s done this a million times before.
His voice is low against my ear. It’s almost gentle. “Easy. You don’t wanna make noise.”
My stomach lurches. I taste bile coming up my throat. Tears threaten to spill. I try once more, and bite.
He hisses. His grip tightens as his forearm crushes across my collarbone. It hurts, but I won’t cry. Not now.
“Feisty,” he breathes. “That’s good.”
Good for who?
He hauls me up and my feet lift off the ground. My world tilts. I keep fighting, but it’s useless at this point. He drags me deeper into the trees.
My lungs burn. I twist, clawing for air, for anything—
There’s another shape ahead. Taller. Still. Waiting like this was on the calendar. The sight steals what little breath I have left.
I fight harder. Because I refuse to be another face on a poster. I refuse to go down like this. This mother fucker won’t be the last of me.
His hand slips—just a fraction.
I suck in air. A scream rips out. It’s raw and ugly, but I don’t care. I can almost taste freedom.
Until something jabs my side. A needle. The prick hurts for a split second and then heat blooms. Fast. Like spilled ink. And then it feels like I’m falling.
My arms go heavy. The fight in me dies. My fingers slip off his sleeve, and my knees buckle. Panic flares bright—then fades, like someone’s unplugging me.
“No,” I try, but it’s empty. Barely audible. No, my mind screams.
The trees blur into dark streaks. Somewhere close, a car door opens. Soft. Final. Too normal.
His mouth is near my ear again. Warm breath on my skin. “Told you,” he whispers. “No noise.”
Then arms lift me, and slide me into the dark.
And everything fades to black.
ONE
SALEM
If I die today, I want it noted for the record that I went out in rhinestones and rage. Because what I’m holding up in front of me right now—a sequined slip of fabric that barely qualifies as clothing—is not a dress. It’s an insult. A very sparkly, backless insult that weighs almost nothing in my trembling hands, the tiny crystals catching the chandelier light like cruel little stars. The straps are thinner than shoelaces, the hem so short it would barely cover the tops of my thighs, and the back… there is no back, just a plunging V that ends somewhere around my tailbone. I’m apparently expected to wear this to the “auction.”
You know, the one where I get sold to the highest bidder.
Cool.
Totally fine.
No biggie.
My fingers won’t stop shaking. The sequins bite into my palms as I clutch it tighter, then I let it fall back onto the satin-draped bed like it burned me. It lands with a pathetic shimmer, pooling there like spilled mercury. I drag in a long, slow breath. You know, like one of those calming, yoga-style inhales I learned back in the Before Times. But it hitches halfway, turning into a ragged shudder that rattles my ribs. Before I got snatched. Before I ended up in this penthouse tower of hell. Before I became… property.
Merchandise.
Lot #17.
The girl with too much attitude and just enough market value to make the wrong kind of men pay top dollar. My stomach twists again, a sharp, hollow cramp that makes me double over for a second. I can’t remember my last real meal. Three weeks of fruit slices, watery broth, and the occasional protein bar shoved at me like I’m a dog being trained. My head feels light and swimmy, my legs heavy and disconnected, like they belong to someone else. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that sleep never touches because they never let me sleep more than a few fractured hours at a time.