Page 12 of Rescuing Ember

He pauses, meeting my eyes for a brief moment. There’s conflict there. Uncertainty.

The tiny candle flame sputters.

I cup my hands around it, relishing the feeble warmth. It’s not much, but it’s something. A reminder that even in the darkest places, there can be light.

But then, a keening wail splits the air.

Aria.

The girl is not equipped for this, and it’s going to cost all of us.

I scramble to the front of my cell. She’s curled into a ball, rocking back and forth.

“Shut up,” Bruiser snarls, stalking toward Aria’s cell. “Or I will make you.”

I need a distraction. Fast.

Without thinking, I grab my water bottle and hurl it at the nearest stack of rusty barrels. It connects with a resounding clang.

“You little bitch.” Bruiser whirls, eyes locking onto me. “Think you’re some kind of comedian?” He storms toward my cell, his face contorted with rage, but Aria’s cries subside.

It’s finally sinking in. She may be slow on the uptake, but she learns fast.

Worth it.

Bruiser reaches through the fencing, meaty fingers grasping for my throat. I dance backward, just out of reach. A tattoo, stark black against pale skin, gives me pause. A serpent coiled around a dagger, its forked tongue tasting a drop of blood at the blade’s tip.

“Looks like someone needs to learn some manners.” Bruiser’s lips curl into a sneer, his scarred knuckles tightening into fists as the muscles in his jaw flex.

A commotion from the far end of the warehouse draws his attention. Two of the other guards drag in a new captive. A young man, by the looks of it. He’s putting up one hell of a fight.

Despite being half-carried, half-dragged, the newcomer thrashes wildly, his expensive loafers scuffing against the concrete. Blood mats his dark hair, streaking down a face that’s more bruise than skin.

Yet even battered, there’s no mistaking the quality of his clothes—a tailored suit, now torn and stained, that probably cost more than I’ll ever make in my lifetime.

My eyes lock onto the glint of gold at his wrist. A watch. Rolex, maybe? And those rings are not cubic zirconia.

They didn’t rob him. Which means…?

Oh shit. This is bigger than I thought.

Bruiser hesitates, clearly torn between punishing me and dealing with the new arrival. His eyes narrow as he takes in the man’s expensive attire, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

“Well, well, looks like we caught ourselves another big fish.” Bruiser spits on the pavement and then turns to me. “This isn’t over, street rat.” He spins around and then stalks toward the new prisoner.

The guards drag the man closer, and his unfocused eyes and slack jaw come into view. He’s barely conscious, yet still fighting. Gotta admire the spirit, if not the lack of self-preservation.

They shove him into the cell next to mine. He crumples to the ground, a broken marionette in designer clothes. For a moment, all is still. Then his chest rises and falls. He’s alive.

For now.

I press against the chain-link fence separating us, straining to get a better look. Who is he? And, more importantly, why is he here?

One thing’s for sure—with his fancy clothes and jewelry still intact, he’s not here for the same reason as the rest of us. This isn’t about trafficking. We’re caught in the middle of something much, much bigger.

Somehow, that doesn’t improve our odds of making it out alive. I slump against the wall, heart racing. As for Bruiser, that was too close.

As the night drags on, I drift in and out of restless sleep, bits of conversation slip through the haze.

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