Page 12 of Secured By the Buyer

As my mind struggles to piece things together, I recall my father selling me off to pay his gamblingdebts. These poor souls must have been kidnapped like me. Anger boils within me, but fear soon replaces it.

“Hey.” I reach out to shake the girl beside me.

She stirs, head lifting, her expression a mix of confusion and terror. “Wh-what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” I swallow the bile pushing up my throat. “My father sold me, and I woke up here. What about you?”

“I-I was getting groceries.” Tears well up and spill down her cheeks. “I don’t remember what happened next.”

I try to wake the man next to us, but he remains unresponsive, still under the influence of whatever drugs they used on us.

The girl’s sobs grow louder, drawing unwanted attention.

Footsteps approach our cell, and she shrinks closer to me, crying harder.

“Shh,” I murmur, trying to comfort her, though I can’t keep the tremor out of my voice.

A man comes into view, tall and broad-shouldered, with slicked-back black hair and a slightly bulging belly that stretches the front of his dress shirt.

His stony gaze sweeps over us like we’re nothing more than merchandise on display. “Some of ourproducts are awake already.” His focus settles on me. “You’ll fetch a high price.”

“Hey!” I snap, bristling with anger. “I’m not some object for you to sell!”

The man chuckles. “You are now, redhead.”

He turns and calls out to one of the big men who brought me down here. “You didn’t use enough drugs on this one. Redheads require more.”

The brute steps closer to the bars. “Should we knock him out again?”

The man shakes his head. “No time for that. We need to prep him like the others. Bring him out.”

They unlock the door and come in.

I try to fight, but the lingering effects of the chloroform left my body sluggish. The girl clings to me, screaming, but they overpower us with ease and drag me out of the cell, the girl’s cries echoing behind me.

“Let go of me, you bastards!” I shout, though it only serves to tighten their grip on me.

“Don’t bruise him,” the man in a suit reminds them. “His owner will want the pleasure of marking him up.”

They take me to another room where a pair of women wait, their expressions cold and detached. Theguards release me, and I stumble forward, trying to regain my balance.

“Clean him up,” the man orders before leaving the room, the guard staying behind.

The women waste no time. They ignore my begging requests for help and work quickly, unraveling my braid and brushing out my hair until it lies in glossy waves down my back.

The other considers me for a moment. “Should we wax him like the others?”

“Boss said to leave the pubes,” he grunts. “Gotta prove he’s a real redhead.”

“Fine.” The woman pulls out a pair of scissors and trims around my groin with mechanical precision.

Shame flushes through me, hating every second of this degrading process. My thoughts race with uncertainty, wondering what will happen to me after they’re done. If I act docile, will they lower their defenses and give me a chance to escape?

I glance at the guard, who moves his jacket aside to reveal the gun at his hip.

Fists clenched, I choose to bide my time. They can’t watch me every second, right?

Once they finish with my hair and wax my arms and legs, they rub me down with a warm, fragrant oil. I shudder at their brisk, impersonal touch. Likethey’re prepping a piece of meat instead of a human being.

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