Page 40 of Savage Roses

An ice-cold dread trickles over me as I stop breathing and my nails dig into my thighs. For what seems like an eternity, he stays at my cage and stares.

His smirk remains. The disgust ever present on his flat face.

It seems he might recognize me… until he turns away and walks to the next cage.

The breath I inhale sweeps through my lungs and leaves me feeling lightheaded. I sway on my perch and hardly pay attention to the rest of his walkthrough. My nails drew blood on my thighs, but it is a small price to pay to escape Lucius Mancino’s wrath.

He leaves, making no purchase. The purpose of his visit remains a mystery. One I do not care to solve so long as I never have to peer into his evil eyes again.

The Mill returns to normal—more customers, more purchases.

My exhaustion sinks in. I nod off, my head drooping. Though I have no way of telling time, I pray it is almost the end of the night.

Someone bangs on the bars of my cage.

It is the Handler. He grins maliciously, using his keyring to wake me up. Standing next to him is a man I have never seen before.

He is darker complected, handsome, with defined and masculine features. He is shoulder to shoulder with the Handler, which means he, too, is tall, though he is broader.

The Handler has changed into a suit for the festivities, his greasy hair slicked back into a short ponytail, but even the nicest clothes cannot make a hideous ogre look nice.

In comparison, the mystery man next to him looks refined. Regal, even. His eyes, so dark they are almost black, are on me, as though he knows who I am.

I have no clue who he is.

“Get up,” snarls the Handler. “You have been bought. A special request.”

“But—AHHH!”

My protest is drowned out by the Handler wrenching me toward him by my braid. My scalp burns as I struggle like a baby deer to stay on my feet. I have no idea why he is being crueler to me than usual; he seems angry about something else and has decided to lash out at me.

He walks us down the block of cages and into the elevator.

We ride in silence.

When we exit, one of the flunkies from the salon wraps me up in an overcoat. I am prodded onward, shoved along until we reach a back door and the warm summer air blows in my face. A limousine awaits.

What is going on?!

The mystery man sets off at a brisk pace. The limousine driver rushes to meet him and open the door for him, greeting with a polite nod.

“Evening, Mr. Adams.”

I am uncertain what to do. I stay put at the back door and breathe in the fresh air—the first intake of fresh air I have had in… who knows how long.

But, apparently, I am supposed to follow.

The Handler shoves me in the back, sending me stumbling forward.

“Go on,” he grunts. “Remember, if you try anything, we will track you down. You are being monitored every second this transaction is happening.”

How can I possibly forget? I still feel the pinch behind my ear from whatever they inserted into me.

I hesitantly approach the limousine. The door hangs open and the limousine driver stands dutifully by it, waiting to greet me as I climb inside. If he is judging me for my appearance—I am sure I look worn after all I have been through tonight—he does not let it show on his face.

“Evening, Miss Burtka,” he says.

I flinch, my eyes widening. “My name. How…?”

---