Page 45 of Under His Protection

“You’re special, Ava. I would have loved to have kept you for myself. But it’s too dangerous. You’ll make me good money in Eastern Europe. I’m sure you’ll be passed around only to the kings of the mafia there.”

“Fuck you!” I scream, hammering on the door.

“I wish I had time for that,” he says, his voice muffled by the metal separating us. “I’d tear you apart. Unfortunately, some other lucky bastard gets to—use you.”

The metal latch clanks shut, sealing our fate, and the ropes are tied to hold us in.

I pound on the metal door, the sound flying back at me, a hollow, hopeless sound. My knuckles throb, a dull ache against the metal, but I keep going, my screams swallowed by the walls of this metal cage.

No one will come for you, Ava.

I look at Michelle, slumped against the container wall, her face pale and still. My nails dig into the worn metal, searching for a way out. There is none.

I look around at the terrified faces of the other girls, their eyes wide and lost, their bodies trembling.

We are trapped, bound for a fate worse than death.

Chapter 17

The Metal Cage

The metal walls of the container are cold and hard. It’s like being trapped inside a giant, rusty tin can, the air inside a weird blend of sweat, fear, and something metallic, like the smell of an old, abandoned factory.

I crouch beside Michelle, her body sprawled out on the floor, a pale, drained canvas. Her hair is tangled, and her clothes are a crumpled mess. She’s a ghost.

“Hey, you were amazing back there,” I say as I gently take her hand. “Great distraction.”

Michelle groans, her eyelids fluttering open for a moment. “Mmhhmm,” she rasps. Her eyes, a stormy blue, meet mine for a moment.

My head’s a jumble of worry, of fear. We’re trapped. It’s happening, all of it. They’re human traffickers, and we’re cargo. The thought slams into me, a physical blow. I try to push it away, to pretend this isn’t happening, but the weight of the truth is crushing.

I need to breathe, to think, to find a way to fight.

I caress the razor blade, its sharp edge cutting slightly into my skin. It is a pathetic weapon and wasn’t worth Michelle’s pain. I don’t know what I was thinking. But it is all I have.

“Is anyone—does anyone speak English?” I ask.

Silence. We’re a collection of shadows, a mosaic of fear, huddled together in a fucking container.

We’re alone. The realization is a cold fist clenching around my heart. Alone and at the mercy of a monster.

“It’s no use,” a voice says from the back of the container. English, clear and steady, with no hint of an accent.

A girl gets up and steps forward, her movements hesitant, her body fragile. I recognize her instantly.

“Emily?” I whisper, my heart hammering in my chest. She stumbles towards me, her legs shaking, her eyes bloodshot and hollow. Her face is gaunt, her cheekbones stark against her paper-thin skin.

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice is broken. “You know who I am?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s hard to believe she’s still alive. She’s a ghost, a shadow of the vibrant, confident girl I remember from the Spectrum Design pictures placed in the hallway at work.

I reach out, catching her as she sways, her weight alarmingly light. Her skin is clammy, and her scent, a strange blend of sweat and something else, something stale and sour, makes my stomach clench.

“What happened to you?” I ask. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

She coughs, a dry, hacking sound that seems to shake her entire frame. “Cole—”

That bastard.

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