Page 6 of Lost Girl

No answer, none other than the red flags whipping around in my mind.

Where they’re going to torment you. Where they’ll leave you to bleed out and rot. Just. Like. Peter. No one will hear your screams. No one will care. You’ll die there, alone, Wendy. Forgotten, erased...

“Why are they doing this?” It’s almost a sob now, tears blurring my vision anew.

Heart thrashing.

Knees weak.

This can’t be how I die.

Armand only half shrugs, his grip on my arm tightening a smidge and, still, he doesn’t look at me. “I’m as clueless as you are, sweetheart. Just following orders.”

There’s probably another dozen questions I could throw at him in my desperation, but it’s clear he’s not going to supply me with any answers, even if he weren’t as clueless as he claims to be.

So, I let it go, choking on every last one as we continue on down the hallway. Idly, I notice some of its architecture, mostly the dark, rich wooden paneling and all its carved detailing, but it’s nothing more than a fleeting, listless distraction from my racing thoughts.

Eventually, we come to a halt at a tall, steel door. The mere sight of it locks my throat tight, more so when this mysterious, formidable man pulls it open and motions for me to tread before him.

In the dark.

With absolutely no knowledge of where I’m going other thandown.

Gulping, I nod as surely as I can manage and take the steps cautiously one at a time, my hand flattening against the rough wall for support. They’re bricks or perhaps another coarse stone, but I don’t fully grasp what exactly I’m touching until the enclosed staircase begins curving in what feels like a never-ending spiral to hell. The sudden damp and humid ambiance sure adds to that perception, too.

How I make it to the very bottom without stumbling and breaking my neck in my anxious state, I’ll never know, but when the soles of my ballet flats touch down on the ground, I breathe a momentary sigh of relief.

Momentary being the operative word.

The second my eyes adjust to the sliver of moonlight casting in from these small rectangular windows, iron bars covering their length like a cell, all the air just about leaves my lungs.

That’s when I see the shackles chained to the walls, the few bolted to the concrete floors as well. There isn’t anyone else down here but it’s obvious this was a dungeon at some point in time, and simply imagining what’s gone down here leaves me weak in the knees all over again.

I feel like I’m about to collapse, the world around me going from steady to a slow spin in a mere blink, but a strong hand keeps me upright.

“Please don’t,” I whimper.

I have absolutely no idea what he plans to do, if anything at all considering Tinksley told him he could do whatever he wanted, but I’m scared shitless.

I just want to go home.

Wanting and wishing to go home, though, isn’t magically going to get me out of here. I can’t simply tap my heels together and say the magic words likeDorothy.This isn’t a movie. Some uber strong, brute hero isn’t coming to save me, either.

No, this right here is all me, the time to prove to myself that I can, in fact, be brave.

Think, Wendy, quick. He’s going to chain you to that damn wall if you don’t.

I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out something,anything,that could possibly persuade him otherwise as he drags me along, when it hits me.

The one and only weapon I have in my arsenal.

I’ve used it more times than I can count, more than I should be proud of by society's standards, but truthfully, I have no shame.

And why should I? I know I’m what men deem beautiful, and I’m not saying that in a conceited, self-absorbed fashion. I’ve looked in the mirror plenty of times and I’m well aware of what reflects back at me. Long, dark hair, sky-blue eyes, defined cheeks and full lips women would gladly pay money for. My tits have always been considered the perfect handful and they’re still perky, too. I work out to keep my waist thin and my arse plump.

So yes, I’m about to play that card, because although I don't know exactly what type of man Armand is, at the end of the day, he’s still a man.

“Please don’t,” I try again, placing emphasis on the whimper that follows. “Please, Armand. I’ll do whatever you want.”

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