Page 20 of Don't Say A Word

Silver Oaks is one of the smaller stables dotted around the country that the Attertons own. The stables hold around a dozen horses. There is no grand house, no surrounding farm, just the stables and a track in the middle of nowhere. But under the stables are four cells and in one of them the girl waits.

I grunt in acknowledgment at the greeting of some of the trainers and make my way to the rear of the stables, disappearing down a hidden set of stairs to bang loudly on a door. Marcel opens it within seconds.

“I’ll need the code,” I say before he can speak.

“It’s great to see you again too.” Marcel’s words are mumbled around a toothbrush, his sarcasm thicker than the foam at the corners of his mouth.

We’ve met a few times before. None of them were pleasant. Marcel likes to talk. I don’t. Marcel likes company. I don’t. Marcel likes to detail how he trains his girls. I don’t like to listen. My position within the family allows me power over him. Marcel doesn’t like that.

Despite the fact that he had opened the door, he stands in my way, shirtless, toothbrush running back and forth over his teeth.

“Are you going to move, or should I make you?”

Marcel rolls his eyes and turns. “Always so aggressive. What happened? Mummy didn’t love you enough?”

His accusation hits close to the truth and I step toward him, not being able to help the smirk that crosses my face when he shies away, his hand dropping from the toothbrush, leaving it hanging limply from his mouth.

“Let’s get things straight here and now,” I growl. “I’m here to do a job that Mr Atterton requested of me. Nothing more, nothing less. There is no need for any interaction between us other than what is necessary. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. Okay?”

Marcel grins and the toothbrush bounces. “Sounds like someone missed me.” His mouth puckers and he blows a kiss. A speck of foam hits my face. His grin drops as I wipe it from my cheek.

“Where is she?” I ask, striding down the hall. I dump my bag on the floor, the one that contains my entire life, well, the parts I own, anyway, and stare at the monitors. Each of them are trained on a girl in a cell.

Marcel taps the first screen with the base of his toothbrush. “That one.”

She sits on the ground, propped against the wall, chains around her wrist.

“What did you do to her? She looks fucking dead.”

Marcel grins, finally swallowing then licking his lips clean. “She should wake up soon. Cameron gave her something to help her sleep. Isn’t he nice?”

I frown and pull out a seat to sit in front of the monitors, propping my feet on the desk. “You can go.”

Marcel shuffles from the room, stopping before walking into what I assume is the door that leads to our accommodation. “Remember, I’m the one with experience here. You may need help. Don’t be too quick to dismiss me.”

I keep my eyes stuck on the screen until he leaves. I won’t be asking the bastard for anything. I never ask for help. Ever. Not even when I need it.

The girl on the monitor is beginning to wake. She pushes her legs along the ground as though she’s stretching her muscles. Then she starts to thrash violently, testing her restraints, twisting and pulling against them until she breaks skin and trickles of blood run down her arms.

“Fuck.” The first of Junior’s rules have already been broken. What was Marcel thinking when he put her in chains? She isn’t like the others. She can’t be treated the same. But the damage is done now. Her skin is already broken. I decide to leave her for the time being and just watch without interference. Reaching into my bag, I tug out the manila folder. The girl’s name is Mia. I hate that name. One of Junior’s aunties is named Mia and she’s the vilest bitch I’ve ever come across. She took a particular shine to me, assuming she could make demands of me like the rest of the family did. But Senior Atterton set her straight and for that I was grateful. Even though I despise the rest of the family, I can’t help but have a level of respect for the guy. Respect and gratitude. Begrudging respect and gratitude at times, but it is there.

Leaning forward, I adjust the volume, lifting it until the sounds of her screams fill the room. The reality of what has been asked of me begins to sink in. I wish there was a way I could’ve refused, but saying no wasn’t an option. I don’t just owe them my life. They own it. Every fucking aspect of it.

Resigning myself to my fate, I get to my feet, making my way over to her cell. The door is heavy, made of a soundproof material that breaks the tightness of the air when opened. She stops screaming when I enter. Her head whips around, trying to find the source of the noise. She calls out hello. She’s still sitting on the ground, darkness shielding her eyes, hair in disarray, lips plump and full.

Fuck. She’s even more beautiful in the flesh.

Junior’s tastes usually steer toward blonde with big tits. But this girl is different. She’s the sort of wholesome beauty you only find in small towns. The sort that has no fucking clue how gorgeous they are.

Despite staying still, she knows I’m here. She keeps calling out, talking to me as though I will help. Her naivety is amusing. She hasn’t tasted darkness and cruelty in her life like I have. I almost feel sorry for her. But pity is a useless emotion in my profession. Pity. Empathy. Sadness. Nothing good ever comes from them. The sooner she learns her fate the better, because hope is another pointless emotion.

There’s a button in one corner of the cell that lifts the chains until she’s stretched on her toes. Thinking there’s no better time to start her training, I run my hands over her, remembering Senior’s words to get her used to being touched. She stiffens but doesn’t object too much until my fingers reach the waistband of her jeans and then she screams. It’s a piercing scream that causes me to reel away from her.

She doesn’t stop. It fills the room, echoing off the walls until I shove her, pushing my elbow to her throat to cut off the noise. She kicks, feet, knees and legs flailing through the air until she connects with my shin. Bitch.

Regaining my composure, I grab her by the throat, pushing her back against the wall as I tear the clothing from her body. Buttons fall to the ground. My knife slices through the material of her bra.

For a moment, I am distracted by the perfection of her and let her go. She swings from the chains, her arms stretched above her, her breasts on display, perk and ripe and begging to be kissed. I curse inwardly. This isn’t supposed to happen.

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