Page 69 of Nemesis

And… well, Saint didn’t seem inclined to touch my breasts when he was mauling me.

He seems to be waiting for confirmation.

I do the crazy thing and lift my shirt, exposing a breast. I flick the gold bar and make a face. “Yep, seems to be a piercing. Not some figment of your imagination.”

He stares at me.

“Oh my God, Saint. Get out of my room.” I march forward and shove at him.

He must still be in shock over seeing my tits, because the big manstumbles. Just a step or two back, but it’s enough for me to slam my door in his face. And lock it, for good measure.

Yes, my nipples are pierced.

One was consensual. One wasn’t.

But if I told him that, I don’t think he’d believe me. I hardly believe it myself.

Sometimes, Terror feels like a distant dream. Something my subconscious made up, and I slowly forgot about it over time. I didn’t want to remember, and yet, standing in my bedroom all alone, the memories surge from where I’ve locked them away.

And all at once, I’m drowning in it.

19ARTEMIS

Terror - nearly ten years ago

I sit in a dark cell,my back to the wall. My breast aches and burns where the silver hoop they shoved through my right nipple touches the loose t-shirt. A spot of blood has formed on the white fabric, just barely visible in the dim overhead light.

A single bulb that buzzes and flickers.

There’s a wide window over my head, but it’s only a few inches tall. Thick bars ensure detainment. That and the metal door that remains locked at all times.

I am alone at all times.

Until the guards come anyway. They shuffle girls into the hall like cattle, prodding at us, directing us into showers. Where the filth of our cells is scrubbed from our skin, new outfits are presented. Rough hands grip our chins and paint rouge on our lips and cheeks, breathing fake life into our appearances.

I was fifteen the first time I was raped.

Fifteen and naïve.

Fifteen and devastated. Confused. Scared.

Fifteen and innocent—until, suddenly, I wasn’t.

I’ve been here for weeks, if not months. Pushed onto a stage, one girl after another, the bidding and judgment silent and loud all at once. It’s all the same, every time I am prodded through the dark curtains. Every time the lights blind me, and what feels like seconds later I’m swept away to a private room.

To be someone’s plaything.

But this time…

This time, when I’m shuffled into one of the private, fancy rooms, there isn’t just a man waiting for me. Or even just a man and a woman.

There’s a boy, too.

A boy with sea-glass-green eyes and blond hair combed back, slick and secured with gel. He can’t be much older than me, and he’s the one who tentatively steps forward.

Who holds out his hand like I am a feral animal.

I haven’t been allowed to be feral. There’s a constant threat of going downstairs, where there are no rules. Nothing to protect us from the dark pleasures of men.

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