Taken
A House of York Prologue
Charlotte Byrd
Contents
About Taken
I. Prologue - Easton
1. Everly
2. Everly
II. Before York
3. Everly
4. Everly
5. Everly
6. Everly
7. Everly
8. Everly
9. Everly
Also by Charlotte Byrd
Praise for Charlotte Byrd
About Charlotte Byrd
About Taken
A date with a cute guy turns into my worst nightmare. Taken and imprisoned, I become a captive.
Easton Bay, a dangerous billionaire, is supposed to be my enemy, but he risks everything to protect me. He is my beacon of light in this place of darkness.
What happens when his protection is no longer enough?
This is the prologue to the full-length novel, House of York.
Part I
Prologue - Easton
They are not supposed to be here. They are innocent and polite and sweet. Some of them may even be kind.
They think that they are here of their own free will.
They think that it’s a game.
They think that everything is going to be okay.
I know the truth.
They are not here by accident. They were all carefully chosen.
Selected.
Identified.
Vetted.
Some are here because they are gorgeous, others because they will be good at bearing children. A few are lost souls who no one will ever look for.
But some, well, they are here because of their ability to fight.
Propensity to fight.
Willingness to fight.
Not everyone wants a fighter. Not everyone wants someone to resist their every move.
But some of them do. And these are the ones who will pay the most. And to find a girl who is both beautiful and a fighter? Well, that’s everything, isn’t it?
Of course, there will be the ones who fail. Most will fail at least once, but some will fail for good.
We call this game a competition to keep them pacified. Calm. Quiet.
But they had all lost their freedom a long time before they ever stepped foot on the island of York.
All but one will lose their lives.
Everly
Degrees of freedom
Freedom is difficult to describe when you have it.
You go through life bogged down by life’s little problems. You go to work at a job you don’t particularly like.
You get paid way too little.
Thirty-four thousand dollars a year.
Your rent and monthly expenses are way too high.
Fifteen-hundred in rent and another three-hundred in student loan payments plus utilities. Of course, there’s the myriad of other little but not inconsequential expenses.
The occasional lunch out.
Happy hour.
A movie once in a while.
Is this what it means to be an adult? I guess so.
After I graduated with my undergraduate degree in Psychology, I decided to work for a few years to save some money before going on to graduate school for my doctorate.
Of course, I wanted to work in the field. The only problem was that the only job I was qualified to do with just a bachelor’s degree was to answer phones at a marriage therapist’s office.
I scheduled appointments and dealt with the insurance companies. The job wasn’t anything I ever wanted to do and I hated it.
I would sit in the freezer of an office with the zipper of my dress pants digging into my stomach, and I would feel sorry for myself. College was hard, but it was nothing in comparison to the grind of everyday life. School was broken up into semesters, and semesters into weeks, and weeks into classes and assignments. Even if a class was unbearable, as some requirements were, at least I knew when it would come to an end.
I can still remember the contempt that I felt for my job and my life, in general. Days became weeks and then months and years and everything in my life stayed the same. Clients called. Appointments were scheduled. Lunch was eaten. Money was made. Bills were paid.
But looking back now, trapped in this God-forsaken place, I would give anything to be there again.
To have that kind of freedom again.
“Number 19,” a loud deep voice is piped in on the loud speaker. “It’s your turn.”
My heart sinks and I take a deep breath.
“I don’t have all day,” she says loudly.
I know what to do and I do it quickly. I pull off my tank top and take off my pajama bottoms. When the door opens, I’m completely nude. She looks me up and down.
I’m used to their glares. I don’t know her name, I know her simply as C. There are twenty-six guards here. All called by different letters of the alphabet.
“Let’s go,” she says, leading me to the end of the hallway.
The ground is cold and wet under my bare feet. I’m ushered into a large shower room. Five others are there as well. We exchange knowing glances, but none of us dare to say a word.
We have exactly two minutes to wash our hair and bodies. After that, the water turns off automatically and the guards throw us a small hand towel to dry ourselves.
It wasn’t that long ago when I worked at an office all day hating my job.
It wasn’t that long ago that I thought that I didn’t have any freedom.
Now, I know better.
Now, I know what real imprisonment is like.
Now, I know that the life that I hated so much before is one that I would do anything to get back to now.
After drying myself off, C leads me back to my cell. The walk back is even colder than before, but I appreciate being given the opportunity to clean myself.
“E will be in shortly,” C says. “It’s your turn to be shown.”
My throat clenches up in fear.
To. Be. Shown.
What does that mean?
Everly
When she gets me ready…
Being shown.
I’ve heard whispers about this, but none of the prisoners really know what’s going to happen. The guards? They know. Of course, they know, but they aren’t talking.
When C leaves, I put my pajamas back on and sit down on the bed. I wrap my hands around my knees, resting my head on top.
I wait.
A few minutes later, E comes in. Her hair is cut short, blunt at the edges, right by her chin. Her eyes are severe, without an inkling of compassion. Her skin is pale. Her bright red lips stand in stark contrast to the gray monotone uniform that all the guards down here wear.
Besides the bright red lips, she is not wearing a smudge of any other makeup.
She lays a garment bag and a big black makeup box on my bed.
“Strip,” she says, sternly.
I do as she says. I know better than to resist. Once I’m completely nude, she looks me up and down. She brings her hand to my chest and bounces my left breast up and down, examining it for…something. I don’t know what.
“Lie down on your back and open your legs.”
I want to punch her. Kick her. Smash her in the face. But I remember what happened. Besides, I can’t escape. The door locks automatically, and the only way out is through her fingerprints. Even if I could get out into the hallway, I wouldn’t know where to go. And I can’t very well drag a body with me to open the other doors.
I lie down on the bed as she says. I spread my legs.
She leans over me and again examines me.
“Stay just like that,” she says and brings over
her toolbox. My heart jumps into my throat, anticipating what she is about to do to me.
But I calm down a bit when I see her pull out a waxing kit. She warms the wax and carefully applies it to me using a wooden applicator stick.
A moment later, she puts on a strip of cloth and rips out my hair by the roots.
“Ouch!” I moan from the pain.
“Be quiet,” she dismisses me.
The next strip she applies, I bite my tongue and keep quiet.
I’ve only been waxed once before and I ran out of there before the woman could finish. It was just too painful. But today, I don’t have a choice.
She applies the hot strips and peels them off with expert precision. A few minutes later, I’m completely bald on top.
“Get on your knees.”
“Why?”
“Do it.”
I flip over.
“Stick your butt in the air and spread your legs.”
I take a deep breath as she applies the hot wax to one of my ass cheeks. When she pulls the strip off, I can’t help but yell out.
“Be quiet.”
Trying to stay quiet as she finishes, I bury my face in the blanket and muffle my cries.
“Flip over.”
“Is it over?”
She pushes me back to my back.
Then she spreads me wide open, exposing every last bit of me.
“Does it look like it’s over?” she asks, pointing to the little hairs.
“You’re taking all the hair?”
“Every last strand.”
As soon as she wipes the hot wax inside of me, I realize that this is going to hurt way worse than any of the strips before. I grab onto the blankets with my hands and hold my breath.
“You’re done. Get dressed, you big baby,” E says. “Wait, before you do, lift up your arms.”
I do as she says. She examines my armpits and then runs her eyes down my body, looking for stray hairs.
“Here,” she says, handing me a razor and a bottle of liquid soap. “Go shave yourself.”
I walk over to the small sink in the corner of my cell and do as she says. I run my hands down my legs and ask for permission to shave them. She nods. When I’m done, I let her examine me again. Finally, she gives me a nod of approval.
After washing and drying her hands, she opens her makeup box. The box is so large that it has wheels like a suitcase. She gets out a big spotlight and shines it in my face. There is no mirror here, so I cannot see what she is doing as she starts to apply foundation to my face. All I see are the tools. Foundation brush. Concealer brush. Eyeshadow primer. Eyeshadow brush. Highlighter. After a few minutes, I lose track of everything that she’s doing.
“So…how did you get this job?” I ask. Partly out of curiosity and partly out of boredom.
I haven’t talked to anyone in days and life gets tedious that way.
But E ignores me.
“You’re just not going to answer me?” I ask. She gives me a little shrug. Progress.
“Are you not allowed to talk?” I ask.
“Of course, I am,” she says. Apparently, I have insulted her.
“So, why don’t you answer me?”
She shrugs again.
“I applied for it.”
“You applied for it?”
“Did I stutter?” she asks.
Now, it’s my turn to shrug.
“So…you don’t live here?” I ask.
I don’t really know where here is, but I hope that she can help me figure it out.
“I just work here. I live on the mainland.”
Wow. There’s that word.
Mainland.
How long have I been here? I’m not sure exactly. But in all that time, I didn’t realize that we were on an island.
Do you know what happens here? I want to ask. Do you know that we are all prisoners? You must. Of course, you do.
I want to ask, but I don’t know who I’m talking to. She’s a stranger. And just because she’s a woman, doesn’t mean that she is necessarily on my side. She is an employee, after all.
So, I decide to ask something else instead.
“So, what does E stand for?”
“It’s just a letter.”
“You don’t have a regular name?”
“Not here.”
“Why?”
“No one here has names. Privacy reasons.”
I look straight into her eyes. Is she trying to tell me something? Reach out? Or is she just stating the facts?
“My name is Everly,” I say. I need to make a connection, any way I can.
“No.” E shakes her head. “Your name is Number 19. And you will never mention Everly again, if you know what’s good for you.”
It sounds like a threat, but it’s not. More like sound advice from someone who has a little sympathy for me. At least, I hope so.
If she won’t tell me anything about herself or this place, then maybe she will tell me something about what is about to happen.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “Why are you doing my makeup? Dressing me up?”
“Because that’s my job.”
“But what’s it for?”
“You are going to be shown.”
“What does that mean?”
“There will be a competition. A contest with judges. Only, it won’t look like a contest. Everyone will want to be there. It’s a privilege just to be chosen. You will all live in a big house together. Play. Have fun. But every few days, someone will leave.”
The way she says the word ‘leave’ sends shivers through my body.
“What do you mean by leave?”
“There will only be one winner. And the winner will get to leave with her life.”
“And…go home?”
“No.” E shakes her head. “You will never go home. You will be his.”
“Whose?”
“I’ve already said too much.”
“That doesn’t exactly sound like a contest you’d want to win,” I say after a moment.
“It’s not. But it’s better than the alternative.”
Part II
Before York
Everly
When life dragged on…
It’s almost lunchtime. I keep glancing at the clock in the waiting room. For a few moments, I blank out and watch the little hand make its way around the face of the clock.
Is this what my life is coming to?
I’m twenty-five and feel utterly lost. Scrolling through Facebook and Instagram, I look at the pictures that my friends from college are posting.
One is traveling around Scandinavia.
Another got married in Scotland.
Two more are backpacking through Australia.
Three girls who lived on my floor junior year are planning their weddings and posting a zillion updates about their great new lives.
Of course, there are those who are working as well. But even they seem happier than I am. Here they are living it up at a club in New York. Having brunch in Miami. Sailing around Nantucket.
What do I have to post and share?
Here I am at my desk, counting down the minutes until I get out of this ice-cold office and go out to lunch.
I know that I should bring a brown bag and eat in the break area like Phillis, but I just need to get out of this place.
I can only take the fluorescent lights and answering calls with a friendly, “Dr. Morris’ office. How may I help you?” for so long.
Finally, the clock strikes noon and I don’t hesitate for a moment. I already have everything I need ready. I grab my purse and dash out.
If Dr. Morris would have it her way, I’d stay on and answer calls all eight hours a day. But her business partner, the office’s legal counsel, insisted that even the receptionist has to have time off for lunch.
As soon as I get outside, the stiffness of the humidity is like a punch to the throat. Most people in Philadelphia wait all year for summer and then spend these precious three
months complaining about the heat.
Not me.
I love it.
The heat engulfs me like a warm soft blanket, putting me immediately at ease. I take off my sweater and enjoy the sunshine on my bare arms.
The only good thing about my job is the location.
Smack in the middle of Rittenhouse Square.
It’s a beautiful historic park in the middle of old Philadelphia, surrounded on all sides by tall expensive apartment buildings and a bunch of little boutiques, cafes, and cool shops on the ground level.
Having grown up in the bland suburbs, with cookie cutter malls and chain restaurants, I relish in the city life that is my life now.
But of course, it’s not without its drawbacks.
For one, I can’t afford to live really close to Rittenhouse Square, or anywhere particularly nice in central Philly, because I don’t even get paid thirty-five thousand dollars a year.
But since I do live in the city, my rent is high in comparison to say a nice new condo that I could get further away.
I graduated from Middlebury, an exclusive liberal arts college in the middle of New England. Vermont, to be precise. Most of my friends were from wealthy families from all around the Northeast so after graduation many of them moved to New York City.
Unlike them, I took out a lot of student loans to pay for my private education. The only job offer I got that was anywhere in my intended field was at Dr. Morris’ office in Philadelphia. So, I moved to Philly. It’s significantly cheaper here than in New York, but by no means is it at all affordable.
I duck into my favorite coffee shop, down one of the cobblestone alleyways around the Square. The barista has spiked hair and tattoos lining her arms. She is also very good at making all different types of coffee.
Taken: A House of York Prologue Page 1