Page 3 of Where Broken Wings Fly

Something’s wrong here. There’s a look in his eyes—a sick, lascivious gleam that sets off mental alarm bells. He’s staring at me like I’m his dinner.

“I’ll take that inspection, Mario.”

My heart somersaults.

“You know I like to be thorough,” he adds. “Especially given the price.”

“Of course,” Mario blusters, shooting me a stern look. “Go with Mr Sanchez, Willow. Best behaviour. Don’t let me down now.”

“But—”

“No buts or I’ll be keeping tonight’s pay cheque.”

Fuck. I really need that money. It’s been almost a week since I ate a real meal, and my stomach feels like it’s eating itself. I’ve been sleeping on the park bench every night.

I had to use last week’s cheque to pay off one of my father’s old friends who tracked me down, threatening unspeakable violence if I didn’t cough up the money he wanted.

Dragged away before I can protest further, we leave Mario’s boastful grin behind. I’m guided through the curling smoke and writhing bodies towards the dreaded unknown.

I have no choice but to follow the overbearing, muscled frame of my captor into a private room out back, drenched in black leather and the sensual shadows of darkness.

The door clicks shut, and the snick of the lock sends terror spiking through my veins. I’m locked in here with no escape route, and the stranger prowls towards me.

“On the bed,” Mr Sanchez orders. “Clothes off.”

“My… clothes? The b-bed?” I repeat.

“Yes, child. Are you deaf?”

Trembling all over, I inch towards the metal bed frame placed in the exact centre of the room. It’s covered in blood-red satin sheets, accompanied by built-in leather restraints.

I haven’t been in this room before, but I’ve heard the screams that echo through the locked door. The other girls have warned me to never come here. This is really bad.

Run, Willow.

No amount of money is worth this.

Before I can flee, two firm hands grab my hips from behind. I’m shoved forwards onto the bed, my face smacking into the slippery sheets. Pressure explodes across my scalp as he yanks on my long ringlets.

Roughly flipped over by my hair, Mr Sanchez splays me out across the mattress. In this position, I’m completely vulnerable, and my legs are forced wide open for him to step between.

He stares down at me with visible lust. “You’re such a beautiful girl, Willow. So beautiful. Perfect.”

“Thank y-you,” I stutter.

His vivid blue gaze hardens, filling with rage. “You will address me as Mr Sanchez. Nothing else. Is that clear?”

Staring deep into his eyes, gleaming with intelligence and framed by neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair, I nearly swallow my tongue from fright.

“Thank you, Mr Sanchez.”

“Better. How old are you, chica?”

“Eighteen,” I lie easily.

Mr Sanchez’s glare grows even colder, and he rolls up the sleeves of his expensive dress shirt, discarding twinkling diamond cufflinks that would clear my name in one payment.

“That’s a lie,” he spits. “You want to try that again?”

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