Page 8 of Never Broken

And as for me? I just waited, heart pounding in my ears. Waited for my new master to mention the bruise that still throbbed like an alarm bell near my eye. Waited for him to realize that bargain or no bargain, I was trouble—what kind of idiot slave gets in a fight mere minutes before meeting his new master?—and decide to send me back. I wondered if Barrett would say anything. Even though he clearly hated me, he probably wouldn’t. To risk killing a sale, he’d have to be dumber than he looked. And that was pretty damn dumb.

The sales manager cleared his throat. “He can be stripped, if you prefer to inspect him further.”

The handler nodded encouragingly, and I rolled my eyes inwardly.Oh, so you’re a perv, too. Figures.

“No. He’s already had a health examination over there, and I know he’s got scarring—the photos they sent were verythorough. No need to show it off here. There’s a thirty-day money-back guarantee, anyway. If there’s anything wrong with him, I expect I’ll find out sooner or later. I’d rather just get him home.”

“Of course, sir. Hold out your hands, boy,” Barrett ordered gleefully, whipping out the cuffs, clearly relishing the last chance he’d get to remind me that I was property. Dick.

I closed my eyes, stifled a groan, and did as I was told for the third time. I could only hope the ride to the Wainwright-Phillips home would be a short one and that they’d actually come off at the end of it.

“What are you doing?” Wainwright-Phillips demanded.

My eyes popped open. But the question was directed toward the staff.

“It’s policy, Mr. Wainwright-Phillips,” said the sales manager. “The restraints are included.”

“I don’t care. I told you I don’t want him chained. At all.” He grabbed one of my arms. “Look, his wrists are all sliced up already. I realize it’s for your own safety, but if you don’t want the merchandise damaged, how much would it cost you to take five minutes to train your staff to put these things on properly?”

Coincidentally, I had thought the same thing. I guess we both had heads for logic. And all of a sudden, the metal was gone.

Thank you,I thought because even saying that out of turn would have been inappropriate. My master beckoned me to get up, and I could see Harrigan and Barrett breathe audible sighs, probably relieved as I was that this bullshit was almost over. Then?—

“By the way, don’t think I don’t notice those fresh burns on his face and neck,” Wainwright-Phillips said, peering closer. “And bruises.”

Oh, shit.No, no, no.I thought I was?—

“And I want to know what your so-called ‘experienced slave handling professionals’ have been doing to the poor kid,” he demanded. “Who, considering the money’s cleared escrow, is my property, not yours.”

Wait,what? Wainwright-Phillipswasincensed, it seemed, but not at me. And for some reason, he’d held off mentioning it. Why? Just to fuck with the handlers? To fuck withme? Or to put me at ease? But who the fuck cared whether a slave was at ease? Slaves didn’thaveease.

The sales manager sputtered, his slick, sophisticated facade toppling as these bastards’ facades always did when someone called them out on being the sick, violent fucks they really were. “We received him from his previous owner like that,” he stammered, glaring at Barrett. “We don’t take any responsibility for?—”

“The mutt was being aggressive,” broke in the handler, unable to hold back anymore, jabbing a finger at me. Harrigan shot him a death glare whose meaning was clear:Shut up, you idiot.

“Somehow I doubt that, considering he’s completely exhausted, and from what I’ve seen, your staff seem far too quick to punish, when other means of control are available.” My master gestured for me to rise, and I started to get to my feet with a sigh of relief. I was in the clear, for now. “This is completely unacceptable,” he said. “Who’s your supervisor?”

“He’s out to lunch, sir.”

“Well—” Wainwright-Phillips sputtered, looking around as if to see how much further his overinflated sense of entitlement would get him. Not very. “I’m not finished here. You can bet your supervisor will be hearing from me, and so will everyone I know in the market for a slave. And you won’t relish my responses on the customer satisfaction survey, I can tell you that. Come, boy.”

I walked toward him in a daze. Well, shit. If I hadn’t known what I knew about him, I’d say that Keith Wainwright-Phillips almost deserved a chance.

All that remained was for me to get scanned under the microchip machine so the data could be updated and Wainwright-Phillips would be officially registered as my owner. It took seconds only. As we turned to exit the gallery, I caught one last glimpse of the boy from the plane, who’d also been claimed. He kneeled before a well-dressed woman, looking more than a little stressed. She was speaking German to him while she clutched a baby in a sling and held a shrieking toddler by the hand. A teenage slave girl waited nearby, wrangling another child. Just as I’d suspected. The kid wouldn’t get a moment’s peace, but he’d probably be fine. For a while.

Another slave greeted us in the waiting room, a woman with a lined, rosy face, round glasses, and bunned gray hair with a little bit of its original black clinging stubbornly. She was thin and reserved but exuded competence, and more importantly, she didn’t look terrified of Wainwright-Phillips. That was huge.

“This is my housekeeper,” said my master with a slight smile. She actually smiledback. Masters could feel affection for their slaves, I’d heard. It was just that none ofmineever had. “She’s also my cook, so I’d advise you to get on her good side immediately if you want access to the treats.”

Treats? Now the woman turned her sympathetic smile on me, and italmostmade me want to return it, even though it—and the mention of treats—made me feel about five years old. But then we directed our gazes to the ground and fell into lockstep behind our owner as we trailed him to his car. It could only help me to demonstrate to a valued fellow slave that I was well-trained and wouldn’t cause trouble. Yet.

I couldn’t help but blink as we emerged into the sunlight of a sprawling suburban parking lot, the sound of traffic zoomingby on the frontage road drowning our footsteps. But I was most surprised to glimpse jagged, russet-colored mountains in the distance, entirely alien from anything in any part of New Europe I’d lived in. My only real frame of reference for them were cliché scenes from Western movies I’d glimpsed, although since then, stagecoaches, saloons, and horse corrals seemed to have been replaced with interstate highways, big-box stores, and fast-food outlets.

Any change in scenery was a relief, though. For the last few days, I’d been in chains, going from dark, mildewed holding pens to trucks to planes to more holding pens. At least now I could breathe fresh air, even if it was hot, dry, and strange. I turned my face to the sun, drinking it up without shame. Sure, my master could still be a sadist, but he probably wasn’t. And if he was, and if he was helping the man who had my sister, I’d kill him and save her.

It didn’t matter what happened to me after that.

The housekeeper dragged me back to reality as she opened the door of Wainwright-Phillips’s luxury sedan—a classic model of Mercedes-Benz, I instantly noted. (I’d never driven one, of course, but I’d washed a few). If he admired German engines as much as I did, there was yet another point in his favor. Goddamn.

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