Page 44 of Brutal Savior

“I can see that.” I’d like to ask her more questions, but Annie already has her arm around my shoulders, ushering me down a little corridor toward a big, airy living room with music playing. The apartment is even bigger than Jacob’s. I’ve never been in a penthouse, but this is what I’d imagine one would look like. Size-wise, anyway.

The huge living room is decorated in a colorful, quirky style, with mismatched cushions and throws on squashy sofas and chairs. It’s homey rather than posh and calls to me right away. A big TV plays music videos, and there’s a massive spread of food on a low coffee table.

Seven women, all in their twenties or early thirties, are sprawled around, drinks in hand, chatting. A fat ginger cat occupies a whole armchair to himself. They fall silent when we enter until Annie flaps a hand at them. “Jesus. Don’t all stare at her. Keep yourselves occupied while I get the poor girl a drink.”

She steers me toward a shiny kitchen and pulls open an industrial-sized refrigerator.

Oh, yes. That’s what I need.

Annie’s drink selection is as good as a damn bar. Wine, champagne, and fizzy premixes of all kinds. “Here, grab what you like. And check this out. Jell-O shots.” She presses two into my hand. “To get you started.”

I don’t need any more encouragement than that.

Three Jell-O shots and two glasses of champagne later, I’m perched on the edge of the ginger cat’s seat. It feels rude to move him. Eve wasn’t kidding about these girls talking about anything but the fact that we’re all enslaved.

So far, we’ve chatted about music, movies, old high school boyfriends, and weird things our captors have said or done (though they don’t use that term of course. It’s always their name.) Anything and everything except the shit that really matters.

I’ve played along. They’re all curious about Jacob, who is a bit of a celebrity around the Compound, apparently. They laughed when I described his basic man-pad apartment and gasped when, after the third shot, I told them how he spanked me in front of Kendrick.

I have to admit, it was a little bit fun. Especially their horrified shrieks when I described standing in the corner, my bare ass on display. Even Eve yelped at that story, hand over her mouth. “In Kendrick’s office? With him right there? Oh, Quinn. I can’t believe it.”

Now, though, my patience is running low as Annie tells a long story about how she persuaded the man who holds her prisoner to let her get a fourth cat. Everyone is laughing, and it’s clattering in my head, discordant and just fucking wrong. I take another long drink of my third glass of champagne, and Eve’s eyes track the motion.

She leans over from the seat next to me, whispering, “Maybe slow down a bit? You don’t want to feel rough in the morning.”

I ignore her, take another drink, and interrupt Annie. Fuck it. I don’t need this polite, dinner party bullshit. “So. How are you all planning on getting the fuck out of here? I want in.”

Annie stops talking, and all eyes land on me. The mood in the room changes instantly, the happy vibe freezing, giving way to tense silence. The bubbly pop music playing in the background rattles against my nerves.

Eve breaks the quiet. “It’s okay. We all remember how hard it was at first.”

Everyone is nodding sympathetically, and it just makes me angrier. “There’s no ‘at first.’ I’m not fucking staying here! How do we get out? There has to be a way. They can’t just keep us here.”

“We all think like that at first.” It’s a tall, strikingly pretty woman whose name I can’t remember. Her warm brown eyes lock onto mine. “I’ve been here almost twelve years, Quinn. I was only twenty-one when I got taken. It took me a long time to accept it, too.”

Twelve years?

Twelve. Years.

I’d be thirty-six. Or dead, probably, and there’s no way I’m spending the rest of my life here. No motherfucking way.

The others are all piping in, offering up their own depressing timelines.

“Five years next month.”

“I was thirty, only two years for me.”

“Wait, am I the newest, then, after you two? Fourteen months?”

“I was twenty-five. Has it really been three years? Holy shit.”

My head spins, and I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the shock. It can’t really be true, can it? They have to be lying. But why would they? Why the hell would they?

“Did you never try to escape?” It comes out as an angry demand rather than a question, but no one looks offended. They all have those understanding looks on their faces, and it’s making me want to scream.

The striking woman answers. “Of course we did. I’m sure we’ve all run for the gate, haven’t we?”

Murmurs of assent come from all sides. “Have you seen the fence yet?”

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