Page 49 of Fallen Stars

And then they pounce. I scramble to escape, but it’s no use. There is nowhere to go. Especially when I’m chained to the floor.

Thick arms wrap around me and hoist me off the floor. When I first woke up in this room and someone came at me, I fought back. I kicked, punched and screamed. But now, not as much. Sure, I squirm and try to wiggle free. I grunt and mutter my abhorrence. But the more time that passes, the less I fight. The longer I’m here, the longer I’m deprived of basic human necessities the less strength—physically and mentally—I have.

While one man painfully pins me to his chest and squats, the other shortens the length of my chains anchored to the floor by securing a different link to the eyebolt. When he finishes, my knees crash down on the concrete, and I fall onto my side.

Maniacal, synthetic laughter rings in my ears as the two men exit the room. But they don’t close the door.

Hope surges in my chest but dies out before I take my next breath.

A different man enters the room. This one shorter, leaner, a little twitchy. Clothed in dress slacks and a polo shirt, he, too, wears a mask over his head.

Uncertain what will happen next, I remain on my side on the floor near the anchor, my eyes locked on his every move.

An arm’s length away, he squats down and tilts his head to the side, studying me like a new and fascinating trinket.

My insides twist in an unorthodox way. Bile claws at the walls of my stomach and creeps up my throat.

He reaches forward and grazes my cheek with his knuckles. I jerk away but barely move an inch. Mechanical laughter fills the room as he repeats the action, then clutches my chin.

“When they told me how attractive you were,” he says, “I thought they were exaggerating.” The man jerks my chin up and shifts my head left, then right. “But they weren’t wrong. You’re quite ravishing.” He rises to his full height and inches back. “Not that your looks will save you.”

His words momentarily throw me off.

“Up on your knees,” he orders in a deep, inhuman voice.

When I don’t move right away, he takes a step back and then swings his foot forward, connecting with my shins.

I howl in pain and curl into a fetal position, clutching my legs to my chest.

“I said get up on your fucking knees.” His robotic command is louder, harsher, and I detect a hint of his own voice.

Pushing up off the floor, I clamber to my knees. My shins and knees burn against the concrete, but I don’t voice my pain. I don’t give this asshole the satisfaction.

The man walks in slow circles around me, the soles of his shoes sticking to the floor and squeaking with each step. He stares down at me as if I’m prey. As if I’m some pawn in his fucked-up game.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, Two Sixty-Three.” He stops in front of me and tilts his head a moment, contemplative. “Let’s see how long you last.” Twisted laughter bounces off the walls. “Let’s see how much you love it.”

I have no idea what’s about to happen, but it can’t be good. And without a doubt, I won’t enjoy a single second of it.

“Consider this a small sample of what’s to come.”

Before his words register, his fist connects with my cheek. An explosion of pain and fire sears my face. Flashes of light dance across my vision. I reach for my cheek but fall short when the chain jerks to a stop. And then the same excruciating pain lances my other cheek.

I drop my chin to my chest in the hopes of avoiding another blow. But it’s impossible.

Fingers slide through my hair, curl into a tight fist, and yank my head upright.

“Ah, ah, ah.” The man waggles a finger inches from my nose. “Did I give you permission to hide your face?” He jerks my head back further until his masked face fills my vision. “The answeris no, Two Sixty-Three.” He releases my hair with a shove. “Be good and stay upright.”

Blow after blow, the man punches and kicks my head, my chest, my hips, my legs. His grunts, groans and laughter blend with the white noise in my ears. Bruises and blood mottle my dirty, bare skin. The taste of metal dances over my tongue. Each hit lasts a lifetime and permanently etches itself on my soul.

Death would be too kind with how I feel in this moment.

But then he adds humiliation to the list.

Unbuckling his belt, he releases the button on his slacks, drags down the zipper, and pulls his dick out. He spits on his palm and jerks off inches from my face. I avert my attention and he fists my chin, twisting my head so I am forced to watch. So I have to witness his pleasure, how much he gets off as he subjugates me further. He tells me how much I deserve this—to be on my knees, to be punished, to live the rest of my days in the servitude of others’ needs. An unwavering pledge on his tongue, he tells me this is how my life will be from now on.

And then he comes on my face and chest, tucks himself away, refastens his pants and belt, and exits my prison cell.

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