Page 8 of Kristoff

“Put your hands behind you,” he orders, shifting my position.

“My shoulder hurts.” I roll my arm, trying to work out the tension. Any help I thought he might give is just a dream. He pulls my hands behind me and clicks the cuffs together.

“And whose fault is that?” he growls.

“Well, I didn’t stab myself,” I retort, instantly regretting the comment as he grabs my ass cheek.

“If you try to run, or escape me while I transport you, the little belting you had last night will seem like a vacation.”

I nod, positive he means what he says, and not wanting any part of what he gave the night before.

“Walk.” He turns me to face the open door and pushes me with a single finger in the middle of my back. I’m so easily controlled now.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask once I’m outside the room and in a dimly lit hallway. The air is stale, musty.

Kristoff doesn’t answer me, just keeps needling my back with his finger. I walk faster, trying to get away from the annoying sensation, but he only quickens his step along with me.

The doors along the hallway are all closed. No windows on any of them. I try to listen for sounds. Are there other women being held captive down here? Is this where they keep the girls before they sell them?

“Shit.” I stop walking and shake my right foot. I must have stepped on a rock. Kristoff grabs my arm to keep me steady. Did he think I’d run off, naked and bound? I’m not as dumb as he and everyone else thinks.

“Let me see,” he orders, snapping his fingers and pointing at my foot.

“Why?”

He sighs, heavy like he’s had enough of me already. He points again.

Bending my knee, I show him the underside of my foot. There’s a cut, blood is already trickling down my heel.

Brushing away the dirt as best he can with his fingers, he bends lower to see better. If I was more trained, better skilled, I could use his positioning against him and try to get away.

He pulls the skin of my heel and I see the wound open up and more blood rises to the surface. I hiss and try to pull away.

Keeping his grip on my arm to keep me steady he bends down to the ground and picks up what looks like a shard of glass. It’s long and jagged. He pockets it and in a swift movement, he lifts me from the ground and deposits me over his shoulder.

I grunt, as much about his shoulder digging into my stomach as the indecency of the position he’s put me in. My hair falls around my face, shielding me from sight. How can I map out the place if I can’t even see it?

“I can walk,” I say, trying to buck up and back over his shoulder.

He smacks my ass. Hard. Not a little pat to remind me he’s in charge, but a sharp stinging smack that reminds me of how much harder he can go with me.

With my hands bound behind me, it’s hard to do anything other than lay like a limp bag of potatoes. Annoying and uncomfortable, but still the bigger problem, the more concerning issue is I can’t see where he’s taking me. And I have no idea why.

The cement flooring turns to wood stairs then to carpeting. He’s taking me through a building. A house maybe?

Men are talking somewhere off in the distance, but no one interrupts our movements. I splay my hands across my bare ass as best I can just in case. Kristoff’s chuckle tells me he finds the action pathetic.

Well, fuck him.

I make sure my legs stay clamped closed as he takes me up another flight of stairs. And another.

Where the hell is he putting me? Is he moving me from a dungeon to a tower?

“I don’t want anyone inside; do you understand me? I am not to be interrupted for any reason,” Kristoff says in Russian.

“Of course,” a deep voice responds. I try to look up again and growl, frustrated I can’t see anything and have no control over my own damn movements.

A door opens, and we enter a room, an apartment? We could be entering the third ring of hell for all I know. Considering the treatment I’ve received so far, the idea isn’t too far away from reality.

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