Page 70 of Sin & Sapphire

With regret, I left their shoes—half a dozen sizes too big, they’d only slow me down—but I grabbed a pair of flip flops.

A set of bags sitting on the top shelf of Valentin’s closet caught my eye—designer labels, the bags perfectly creased, as if they’d never been touched. I leapt and grabbed one, and it tumbled to the ground.

My heart squeezed in my chest. The bags were full of clothes in my size. I’d grown up wearing expensive clothes, but these were another step up. My breath whooshed out of me as I considered what this meant. Perhaps they didn’t mean to keep me imprisoned forever.

A tendril of guilt wormed through me—I’d cost Valentin and Angelo a lot, and I was running again.

On the other hand, they kept me locked up like a fucking prisoner and played with me for their sexual gratification whenever they felt like it. I wanted no part of that. Even if I liked it, even if I craved Valentin’s switch, even if it felt so damn good when Angelo praised me for letting him take control.

They hadn’t fucked me yet, and I knew I couldn’t let them. I’d lose myself, let them take me over entirely, and I couldn’t afford that. Not now, not when I had absolutely nothing to bargain with.

I tore through the bags and slid on a pair of buttery soft leggings, then grabbed sneakers. Feeling better prepared than ever, I gathered up any paper scraps I could find, including, regrettably, the books Valentin had lent me the night before.

I turned on two burners on the gas-lit stove and put a pot on one. I wasn’t trying to kill anyone, after all. Carefully, I lit the books on fire, then dropped them into the pot, watching flames lick up, then waited.

Moments later, the fire alarm sounded, loud and blaring in the quiet of midday, and the red light above the palm reader turned to green. Fuck yes, I’d done it!

I pulled out the gun I’d found and unlatched the safety, then cautiously stepped to the door, looking out the peephole. I couldn’t see the guard outside.

When I opened it, he was standing to the left of the door. He looked me up and down, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Vous n’allez null part,” he snarled. You’re not going anywhere.

In a smooth motion, I raised the gun and shot him in the leg. He fell to the floor, screaming in pain. I dropped the gun back into my bag and then ran for the stairwell joining the other residents who were evacuating the building.

Nobody gave me a second glance as we streamed out of the building. Throngs of tourists gawked as the building residents gathered on the sidewalk, their faces alternating between worry and frustration. Yeah, having to evacuate a building in the middle of the day sucked. But you know what sucked more? Captivity.

And Stockholm syndrome, a whisper echoed in the back of my brain. No. Whatever I was feeling for Angelo and Valentin was a rational response to trauma and violence. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

I let the crowds carry me downtown, where I promptly allowed street urchins to surround me, tying a bracelet around my wrist and demanding money. When I shrugged, saying I had none, but I wanted to trade some jewelry for cash, a pre-teen boy put his hands on his waist and laughed.

But when I dangled Valentin’s thousand-euro cufflinks in front of him, he was quick to offer me a deal. I walked away with 163 euros, better than I expected, but not enough for me to escape the city and disappear. My clothes were too expensive, too clean, too new. I’d need to swap them for more worn clothing quickly.

A few hours later, I’d made enough trades that I could afford the indulgence of buying hair dye and ducking into a hostel to use the shower.

“You want a bed for the night?” the kid at the desk asked, eyeing me up and down with suspicion.

“Just a shower,” I said, pushing a twenty Euro note over the desk.

He snatched it away, then jerked his thumb toward the back of the building. “Dump your towel in the bin when you’re done.”

Ignoring the way his stare burned into my back, I wandered down a brightly colored hall as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

A tall woman with tan skin, freckles, and brown coily hair streaked with gold slammed a door shut, muttering angrily to herself. “Fuck you too,” she muttered with an American accent, kicking the door one last time before leaning down to heft her large backpack to her shoulders.

“You okay?” I asked. Her faded harem pants and T-shirt had seen better days, even her scarf was patched.

She shrugged. “Win some, lose some. I’m just sad I lost my roommate for the week.”

I raised an eyebrow, only passingly familiar with how hostels work.

The woman took pity on me. “Private rooms are expensive. Splitting one with a man is a great way to solve two problems at once.” She winked and grinned, her saucy smile winning me over instantly.

My instincts told me to trust her. “Maybe I can help. I need—” I gestured to my clothes. “I need to not look like I walked off Rodeo Drive. Want to trade?”

She fingered my T-shirt. “This is a Balenciaga,” she murmured. “A thousand a pop, new.”

“It’s yours,” I said.

“Cindy,” she answered, thrusting out her hand to shake.

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