Page 273 of Unexpected Hero

I bet lots of people wonder how they’d act in situations like this. But no one ever thinks they’ll learn the answer.

Turns out, I’m all those things.

The strength it takes to be brave is tiring. It comes and goes. Sometimes, it’s easier to cry. At other times, the idea of being weak makes you angry. Then you can fight again. There are ebbs and flows.

Even the weaker girls here have moments when they’ve had enough.

It’s silent in the house. For now.

These brief moments of peace are when I find my strength again.

I’m in a bedroom, along with a few other girls. Lying on my side, I curl my crossed legs toward my chest. Not enough to compress my aching rib cage. But just enough to give my midsection a modicum of protection.

My volume is soft as I sing to myself. As always, it’s the song James would hum when trying to get me to serenade him. The one with my nickname in the chorus.

Sugar bear.

Sometimes, when I’m scared to fall asleep, I pretend I’m singing it to him. Holding him close. Looking into his turquoise eyes. With each note, I feel him loving me through this nightmare.

Just like he did with everything else that haunted me.

Dammit. How could I ever have thought he didn’t love me?

The pain of being without him is a gnawing ache that never relents. It starts in the back of my throat and sinks to my toes. From the time my eyes open, until they close again, it’s there. Battering me more than these monsters ever could.

I will see James again.

This is not where our story ends.

I wonder if he’s looking for me. Does he know I’m missing? He must, by now.

It’s probably killing him. He’s been so protective since the day I met him. He must be a wreck.

They’re not only hurting me in here. They’re also gutting him.

When I escape, I’ll return one day to kill all these men. Then I’ll find Viktor and kill him. And there will be pain. So much fucking pain.

Theirs. Not mine this time.

I’ll start with the man who seems to be running the show here. I think he reports straight to Viktor. For simplicity’s sake, let’s call him a skid mark on the underwear of humanity.

Skidmark is the one who decides whether we eat or when we’ve earned our precious half hour of rest. He makes other decisions, but I don’t want to think about those right now.

So I just keep singing to myself instead.

Interrupting my song like the rude fuck he is, Skidmark throws open the bedroom door. The girls on the floor around me startle awake, immediately shirking away from the door.

He laughs darkly, dragging in a woman by her hair. “Go say hi to your friend,” he sneers, throwing her into the room. “Tell her how you helped us. Thanks again, by the way. Great job.” The door slams behind him.

My eyes fall to the floor where a brunette in a ripped bra and panties lies collapsed. She sniffles and sobs into the dirty floor. My heart clenches, and my throat thickens.

Whoever she is, I can’t let her suffer alone. Crawling to her, I gently place my palm on her shoulder and whisper, “Are you okay, hun?”

While I wait patiently for her to stop crying enough to answer, my knees throb and ache against the hardwood. Everything fucking hurts.

When she twists her neck to look up at me, I’m met with a familiar face. The air catches in my lungs.

Oh no.

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