Page 35 of Tormented Heir

“Oh my God. That’s awful. How could she?”

I shrug in the dark. “She has a lot of issues. I don’t think she’s capable of normal love. I don’t even think she loves her son, my stepbrother, and he’s a cute little gremlin. She fakes it to my dad. He’s lonely and tired, and she dazzled him.” I pause and then share more. After all what does it matter? We’re probably going to die here on this damn yacht. “My dad drinks too much. It started after Mum died and he’s only got worse. It’s how I think Hana fooled him. She’s also kind of gorgeous. Anyway, I think she owes a lot of money to these people because I overheard her talking, and then they took me.”

Josie drums her fingers on the bed beside her. “So perhaps you’re collateral?” she suggests. “Or like a loan, to pawn brokers. That might be good. It means they might not hurt you.”

I suck in a breath and tell her my fear. “I think it’s way worse than that. What if I’m the payment for her debts?”

The door opens, and I stiffen. Every muscle and tendon in my body locks with fear.

Josie’s fingers brush mine again, wrapping around them. “Promise me we’ll look out for each other as best we can.”

“Pinkie promise,” I say with a sad smile as our fingers lock, only for them to be tugged apart when Josie is pulled from the bed.

She shouts and screams, and her cursing is impressive. I try to help her, pushing the covers from me, but a big hand pushes me down, right in the center of my chest. I’m pinned against the bed like a bug on a board.

My arms and legs kick, but it’s useless against the huge palm pinning me, and a second hand joins it, this one wrapped around my throat. I get the message and stop fighting.

I’ll try to find her. I promise it to her as she is dragged from the room.

11

ADRIANA

PRESENT DAY

I don’t see Josie again until the next day. I’m taken from the room I’m in, still dressed in my nightshirt.

Josie is being forced into a different room, along with another girl. I pass them by as I’m pulled down the corridor. Our wide, terrified gazes meet for an instant, and the bond even that brief moment creates is strong.

We say so much in those seconds. We understand. We will survive if we can. Help is coming, Josie’s eyes say. Hang on.

Then I’m dragged by, and the moment is broken. I try to take in as much of my surroundings as I can. It isn’t a small boat, but if I can memorize the layout, I may have a chance to escape if the opportunity arises.

I glance back at Josie, still able to see them through the wide open door, and she nods at me, giving me strength. The girl with her is being pushed and pulled, and she looks so young my heart breaks.

“Sit down, and stop fucking struggling, bitch.” One of the goons pushes the girl down.

“My name is Mila, asshole.” She holds her head up, terrified, bedraggled but still fighting.

Mila, the girl Josie told me about. She has people coming for her. That means we have hope.

I cling to it like a child to its mother. I hold it close to my heart, letting it light the darkness threatening to suck me under.

Giving up is not an option. So far, no one has touched me, but my instincts tell me that won’t last.

The men push me into a large room where a woman waits. She’s in her mid-twenties, and her face is hard and thin. She has marks on her cheeks that almost look like burn scars. She indicates the underwear on the bed.

“Wil this do?” she asks. The smell of stale cigarettes wafts over me when she speaks, reigniting the churning in my belly.

The men glance at it and nod.

It’s trashy, red, lacy, but not real lace; it’s the cheap, stretchy stuff. My heart plummets. You only put a woman in this sort of underwear for one reason.

“No,” I say. “No. No. No.” I begin to back up, but one of the men stops me.

“Fucking gag her,” another complains. “I don’t want to hear her stupid voice.”

They gag me and strip me while I’m shaking with fear, but they don’t touch me sexually. These men are treating me like a job, I realize. Their hands handle me as if I’m an object, brisk and fast. It’s a blessing. After years of men leering at me, there’s something almost pleasant in this brusque disinterest, or there would be, if I wasn’t sure they were going to kill me at some point.

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