Page 58 of Frat Row
He lets me go, and I sink to the ground, holding my stomach. I curl over, trying to calm down, and take in deep breaths. I really thought that he was going to kill me—a couple more minutes, and he could have.
He kicks me in my ribs, and I hear a crack, doubling over.
I spit at his feet. “Fuck you,” I say, laughing maniacally. “Now you’ll have to find a new toy to play your sick games with.”
He looks directly into my eyes, and all I see is darkness. “Sometimes the unknown is worse than the place you’re currently in.”
My body shudders all over, knowing he is speaking the truth. I wonder if he’s met my master or, at the very least, heard of him.
He hauls me up by the back of my gown like I am some kind of rag doll and propels me ahead of him. “Go,” he growls.
I will be glad to never see this asshole again. Am I supposed to know where to go in this shithole? Apparently, he assumes so.
He quickens his pace, grabbing onto my arm and wrenching on it so roughly I swear it's going to come out of the socket.
We stop abruptly, and he takes something shiny out of his pocket. I recognize the handcuffs and fight as hard as I can out of his grasp, not wanting to be at his mercy.
He snatches my bottom lip, bringing it to his lips. “Please keep resisting. I would love to give your master a reason as to why we are making him wait.
Then, he bites my collarbone so hard it pierces my skin just enough to leave indents of his teeth, blood rising to the surface.
Reluctantly, I place my wrists in front of me. Shaking his head at me, I roll my eyes as he positions my hands behind my back and fastens them tighter than he should.
“Ow, fucker,” I hiss as it pinches and rubs uncomfortably on my skin.
Typical dick.
He starts guiding me to what I can only assume is the front of the warehouse. It resembles a traditional waiting room at a doctor's office, minus the secretary, making this officially the most fucked up place I have ever been to.
Dread fills my stomach. What will my master look like? Will he be brutal or show mercy and treat me like a pet of some sort? Sadness consumes me as I hope for the latter of the two.
I try to hold my head high. I’m leaving this fucking place. It did not break me. Almost, but not quite.
At the front of this waiting room stands a guard I have never seen before, and he is talking quietly to another man dressed in a perfectly tailored beige suit.
You can feel the power oozing from the guard; he must be the guy who runs the place.
I take in the man in the suit. Medium build, over six feet, with blondish brown hair and glasses.
He looks up as he sees me coming. This place has really fucked with my head. Desperately, I scan over him, looking for any sort of comfort or human connection compared to what I have been subjected to here.
He glances hungrily up and down at my appearance, and his lips quirk up in disgust.
I have not seen myself since the auction. I am sure I look like a crazed woman being released from an asylum.
He returns to whatever he is doing on his phone and says to no one in particular, “Let’s go. The jet is on the tarmac, ready for takeoff.”
Someone from behind me takes hold of my other arm, and we begin following the man in the suit. I glance up at my new holder, and he looks normal besides the earpiece he is sporting.
I’m placed nicely into the back of a blacked-out Cadillac SUV. The earpiece man slides into the driver's seat, and my master sits in the passenger seat.
I feel like a little kid being outside and taking in all the sights. Embracing the sunlight and the feeling of the fresh air, I want to cry, thinking I would never get out of that place.
The drive is silent, and not long after we leave, we turn onto a narrow road. At the very end of it, I see a small airport. On the tarmac is a massive jet, and as we get closer, I can hear the engine has already been started. Someone stands at the bottom of the extended staircase on the side of the jet, wearing a uniform. It's probably the pilot. We pull up as close as we can, and I am removed more delicately than I have been in a while and escorted up the stairs to an empty seat, the guard buckling me in.
My master walks in ominously and sits in the row beside me, taking the farthest seat away, still typing away on his phone. Chancing it, I steal a glance at him.
“Martin,” he blurts out.
