Page 66 of Unorthodox
Then I see a soft glow, and realize Max is holding his phone as he stands by the door. The light illuminates his face, and he looks almost demonic, alone in the corner of the room, his eyes fixed to the screen.
I watch a wicked smile curve his lips and feel my limbs lock up as he starts to speak.
“Most sex slaves in the States come from poverty,” he says coldly, and I see his eyes shift from his phone, to me.
My blood runs cold, and I dig my fingers into my shins to stop them from shaking.
“Dante here, he came from Mexico. The slave of a boss in the cartel, but the big cartels often stick to drugs and guns.” Max laughs, and it’s unsettling. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “It’s the U.S. you really have to watch out for.” He pauses, still staring at me, phone still glowing in his hand. “But even still,you,Addison,” he sighs, “you were never in the usual targets. And that makes you worthso much more.”His smile widens. “A spoiled little rich girl, whowouldn’twant to put you in your place?”
I don’t need to tell him how wrong he is about me. I wasn’t spoiled. My father might have been wealthy, but those riches never brought me anything but misery.
He must know that, if only because of how women in our world are always treated. Daughters, especially.
But I don’t speak.
Dante hasn’t moved. I think about what Max just said about him. Aslave.Just like what I might be, if my father doesn’t care enough about his reputation to free me. No wonder Dante was so willing to fuck me.
“Ben gave you a taste of what’s to come.” My throat feels constricted with the mention of Ben’s name from Max’s mouth. “But I think it’s best if you really see what you’re getting yourself into.”
The projector sparks to life, glowing white against the entire wall opposite Dante and me.
For a moment, there’s nothing but that as the little capsule starts up, humming quietly.
Then an image fills the wall.
I blink, trying to take in exactly what I’m seeing. It’s a room, I realize, empty. Almost like this one in that it has no windows, but there’s carpet instead of cement, and a light overhead, flicked on.
The door is closed.
The walls are painted a sickly sort of pastel pink.
A sense of foreboding washes over me even though there is nothing particularlywrongwith this image.
But then the door opens, and I realize it’s not an image at all as someone crawls into the room, on her hands and knees.
A girl.
Black hair pulled back in a ponytail, something around her neck.
A collar.
My chest feels tight, and it’s hard to take a breath.
As she crawls into the room, her head down, I see she’s completely naked, save for the collar.
There’s a leash attached to that collar, and then a man appears.
Neither of them has said a word.
The man closes the door, leash in hand. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt. White, with blonde hair, a square jaw. Maybe in his forties.
I don’t look at him for long.
My eyes go back to the girl. I can’t see her face, so I have no idea how old she is, but she’s thin. I can make out her spinal column, even see her ribs.
She shifts on the floor, sitting back on her heels in the position Ben taught me, her hands on her thighs, head still down.
I clamp one hand over my mouth, try to stifle my gasp.
