Broken Hope

by Nicole Fox

  Under the balcony is a large doorway that opens into a general congregating area, though there is no one inside.

  Then, suddenly, a man appears to my right.

  “Sir,” he says, bowing low, one arm pressed to his stomach, the other at his back. “Would you come with me?”

  Before I can respond, he turns and moves through a door to the right. I follow. The door opens into a long hallway, and he walks halfway down it before stopping in front of a door, unlocking it, and holding it open for me to go inside.

  The room is all shades of gray and black with a bright white bed and pillows. It is almost like I’ve had a stroke and can only see in black and white.

  The door clicks shut, and I turn around, my back to the far wall. I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to sneak up on me.

  “Welcome,” the man says. “My name is Edgar, and I will be your guide this weekend. I am here to answer questions, assist you through the process, and fill any reasonable requests you have.”

  He emphasizes the word reasonable.

  “This room will be yours for the next five days, and as soon as you remove your mask, I will leave you to get settled.”

  I freeze. “Aren’t the masks meant to protect our anonymity?”

  He nods. “Among the other guests, yes. But the hosts want every person present to be known by someone working. I’m sure we have nothing to worry about with you, sir, but knowing that someone knows their identity helps the other guests operate within the normal bounds of human interaction.”

  I’m not sure what normal interaction can occur at an event when human beings are being presented as cattle for purchase, but I suppose I understand.

  Still, anonymity was the main pillar of my plan. Without it, I risk being kicked out.

  Or worse, killed.

  “That is not what I signed on for,” I say.

  Edgar frowned. “You are entitled to that opinion, though if you do not remove your mask—only briefly, of course—then you will be asked to leave. I am sorry.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth, glad Edgar can’t see my deliberation. Then, slowly, I reach behind my head and undo the silk tie. I tip my head forward to catch the mask, and then run a hand through my hair as I stand tall again.

  Edgar studies me blankly for a moment before his eyes widen.

  My hands clench around the mask, and I’m prepared for whatever comes next.

  If he recognizes me and has been instructed to alert someone, I’ll kill him. He seems like a nice enough man—as nice as someone who works for the LeClerc Cartel can be, anyway—but I’ve killed nicer men for less. No one will stand in the way of me saving my family.

  However, just as fast as recognition crosses his face, respect follows.

  He lowers his eyes and tips his head forward. “I had no idea I was in the company of such a powerful man. It is an honor to assist you for the duration of the event, sir.”

  My brow furrows. “You recognize me?”

  “You are the leader of the Volkov Bratva, are you not?”

  He is not entirely sure, I can tell, which means he may not know my connection to Eve.

  I nod once. “I am.”

  Edgar responds by dipping his head even lower. “It is my pleasure to be in your company. Do you have any other questions about the process for this weekend?”

  “How will my identity be logged?” I asked. “Will it be recorded anywhere?”

  “Only in my mind,” Edgar answers quickly. “Given the nature of the event, the Cartel understands that our guests want the highest level of privacy, so your presence here will not be recorded anywhere except in my memory.”

  “And one person’s memory can hardly stand up at a trial,” I say with a nervous smile.

  Edgar laughs, though I see his nerves in the tightness of his neck. His role here is just as precarious as mine. He could utter one word of my presence and end my entire plan right now, but he also has to be wary of me. If I were more superstitious, I could have him killed simply for being the only person here to see my face.

  It is this mutually assured destruction that comforts me.

  Edgar folds his hands behind his back and turns to a closet in the corner. He pulls open both doors to reveal a row of differently colored and patterned suits. “Since you are not allowed to bring any luggage with you, clothes have been provided. They are all new items tailored to the specifications given when the mask was registered, though other arrangements can be made if they do not fit.”

  Rick registered the mask, so it is a good thing he and I are close in size. He is thinner than me, which may prove to be an issue, but nothing much will be lost if I have to walk around with an unbuttoned suit jacket.

  “Thank you.”

  “More casual items are in the drawers below,” Edgar says, pulling out one of the wooden drawers to reveal neatly folded boxers, socks, and sweatpants. “If you need anything else, do not hesitate to alert me.”

  Edgar then bends low to open the lowest drawer. “And an array of personal items has been provided should you need them. Rest assured, everything is new.”

  I don’t know what he means until he steps aside, and I see boxes of condoms in every size as well as an open-topped wooden box of various sex toys.

  My heart feels like an anchor in my chest. “Maybe you should educate me on how this weekend will work, Edgar. This is my first time attending such an event.”

  “Of course,” Edgar says, closing the drawers and then the closet doors and turning to face me. “Each night, various women will be available for bidding. Each guest can make bids on the woman of their choosing and, if they wish, take them for the evening. That is simply a ‘test run,’ as we like to say. The auction on the final day will be for permanent placement.”

  I nod and swallow hard. I will have to fight for Eve every single day.

  Every night, there will be men fighting to spend the night with her. To fuck her as though she is nothing more than a common whore.

  The idea sends rage burning through me, and it is all I can do to keep from lashing out at Edgar. From strangling him with my bare hands and tearing through the inn in search of Eve.

  Somehow, though, I choke back my anger and put on a friendly face. “Understood.”

  Edgar nods, oblivious to how close he is to being collateral damage in my fight to find my wife. “I will give you time to settle in, sir.”

  My entire body is tense as Edgar bows once more and leaves, closing the door behind him. I contain my rage for another few seconds, giving him time to get far enough away, and then I haul back and slam my fist into the closet.

  The wood dents under my fingers, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. I curse and shake my hand out, but the pain helps focus my muddled thoughts.

  I can’t relax or become complacent. I have to be vigilant every second.

  Getting Eve out of here unscathed depends on it.

  7

  Eve

  I move through the back doors of the inn in a despondent daze.

  There are no ties on my hands of legs or anyone restraining me, but I might as well be a dog with a leash and muzzle.

  Rian incapacitated me by mentioning Milaya. Now, I can’t do anything that could put her in danger. All I can do is follow orders.

  Which I do.

  I’m led inside and herded into a group with other women. By my count, there are roughly thirteen of us, all different ages and ethnicities. The only commonality is that everyone around me is gorgeous.

  We are shepherded single file by men with guns wearing body armor, and they roughly nudge women in the back if they walk too slow or fall out of line.

  “Stop here,” one of the men barks when we get to a cement-walled room. Based on the shelves of canned goods and boxes around us, it looks like a storeroom for the kitchen.

  One of the guards stays behind while the other goes through a door ahead of us.

  Someone in line a few women behind me is crying softly, sniffling incessan
tly. I understand her feeling, but the noise is grating in the echoey room.

  “Enough,” the guard barks, stepping towards the line and getting in the woman’s face. “Crying isn’t going to help.”

  The woman only cries harder, and the man presses his gun to the side of her head. His voice is low and full of acid when he speaks.

  “I can kill you and claim you tried to run.”

  Immediately, everyone around me stands taller and the woman’s cries end abruptly with one last sniffle.

  The guards can’t hurt us, but they can stop us from leaving. And right now, he is the only guard on duty. Which is as good as making him God.

  I look over my shoulder to see which guard he is. I want to be sure and steer clear of him as much as possible in the days ahead.

  As soon as I look back, however, the guard’s attention snaps to me.

  He has a thick black mustache and matching salt-and-pepper hair. If I had passed him on the street, I would have taken him for a small-town sheriff or a butcher. He looks like a friendly neighborhood man you’d share pleasantries with on your morning commute, not a guard for a criminal Cartel.

  I turn to face forward again, but it is too late. His footsteps echo through the room, matching the pounding of my heart.

  “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” he yells into my ear.

  His words vibrate against my eardrum painfully, but I don’t flinch. I shake my head.

  “I can’t hear you!” he screams, making it so I’m afraid I won’t be able to hear anything ever again.

  “No,” I say, adding a hasty “sir” at the end.

  “Then I’d suggest you mind your own fucking business.”

  He is standing close to me. Close enough I can feel his hot breath on my face. And I know he is trying to intimidate me.

  But I’ve faced worse than this mustachioed guard. My father, namely.

  It is obvious by the way he wields his weapon that his gun is simply an extension of his cock. He craves control and his gun helps him get it. Even when it comes to terrified, defenseless women, he has to wave it around and throw his power in their face. He probably has to threaten to murder us so he can get it up later when he is alone.

  In a lot of ways, he reminds me of Cole Morrison.

  I want to tell him all of this, but I trust him to carry out his threat of shooting anyone who disobeys him, so I just stare forward, eyes boring into the blonde head of the woman in front of me.

  Even while I’m pretending to be effectively cowed, the man hovers over me for a second, ensuring he gets his point across. Then, he continues pacing up and down the line.

  Several minutes later, the other guard comes back and we are led through a dim hallway. One by one, we are assigned individual rooms. The guards come along the line and push each of us into a doorway.

  We all learn as soon as the first woman falls that we should stay on our feet. She receives a swift kick in the stomach for her lack of balance.

  When I’m shoved to the right, I stumble through an already open door and into a small gray room.

  The walls are dingy and the ceiling is water-stained. Everything smells faintly musty, and I can tell from across the room that the mattress is lumpy. This must have once been servants’ quarters for the inn. No guest in their right mind would have paid to sleep here.

  I’m so disgusted by the room around me that it takes me a moment to notice the woman standing quietly in the corner. When I do see her, I jolt in surprise.

  “I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

  The woman nods her head in silent apology. She looks to be about my age with pale blonde hair that is almost white. It hangs around her face in thin sheets, emphasizing the harsh lines of her cheekbones.

  “I’m here to assist you in preparing for the auction,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing I’ve experienced so far has led me to expect my own personal maid.”

  Her mouth pinches together, and I think I see it lift at the corners, but before I can really get a good look, she turns to a narrow door set into the back corner. She pushes open the door to reveal an equally dingy bathroom.

  “I’ve run a bath for you to wash,” she says. “There are razors for you to shave yourself. I’m supposed to tell you that any attempt to use the razor for any purpose other than shaving will result in punishment worse than death.”

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  It does seem dangerous for the Cartel to offer women in this position a weapon. Not only could it be used on them, but it could be used on themselves, which would no doubt ruin the auction.

  However, there is no risk of me hurting myself. As much as I don’t want to be bid on and purchased, I can’t give up hope that I’ll see Milaya and Luka again.

  Not yet.

  “Noted,” I say, brushing past the woman to go into the bathroom. I move to shut the door behind me but meet resistance.

  The woman is standing behind me with her hand on the door. “Sorry, the door has to stay open.”

  “I see they want to strip us of all of our dignity,” I say.

  She shrugs and then lowers her head, her lips barely moving as she speaks. “Basically, yes.”

  The quick surge of annoyance fades as I realize this woman doesn’t enjoy her job. She is simply doing what she has to do, just as I am doing what I have to. So, I move into the bathroom and slip out of the loose-fitting sweats and T-shirt Rian Morrison put on me.

  I don’t have underwear or a bra, but I assume there will be clothes provided for me. Surely, the Cartel wouldn’t present me in sweatpants.

  “I have clothes for you to change into,” the woman says, reading my thoughts.

  I look up and see that she is still in the doorway, but looking the other way. She is offering me as much privacy as she can.

  The tub is old with dark grout around the edges and a rusted tap, but the porcelain itself is clean and, when I slip my leg in, the water is warm. After days of being in the same clothes and tied to a chair, my body is sticky and sore and the water feels like an embrace.

  I sigh as I slide in.

  Even a week ago, I never would have set foot in a tub like this. I would have taken one look at the bathroom and turned around. Now, however, my standards are lower. I will do almost anything to wash away the grease caked along my scalp and the oil on my face.

  I cup my hands under the water and pour it over my eyes. Then, I tip my head back and submerge my hair. Even before shampoo or soap, I feel infinitely cleaner. I grab the shampoo on the edge of the tub and pour a generous dollop in my palm.

  The shampoo is clearly top of the line. It is silky with a strong lavender scent. The Cartel may not be providing nice lodgings for the women they plan to sell, but apparently, they want to make sure we look and smell our best.

  Part of me wants to leave this room smelling like manure and looking like I rolled around in an oil slick, but I can’t resist the feeling of being clean. So, I use the conditioner and then the bodywash, lathering myself all over until the water is milky and suds float on the surface.

  “Where is the razor?” I ask.

  The woman opens a drawer beneath the sink and hands me a razor. As my hand wraps around the handle, she meets my eyes, and I can see her trying to assess whether I’m a danger to myself or her. I smile, not sure whether that is more or less comforting for her.

  I shave quickly, not worrying about missing spots. Any man who ends up touching my legs will be doing so against my will, so I kind of hope he feels more stubble than he likes.

  When I’m done, I pull the plug on the tub and then turn on the faucet and rinse the last remnants of soap from my skin. There is a towel hanging from a bar next to the tub, and I wrap it around myself quickly, folding back the top corner of the towel before tying it in a knot. Then, I slip past the woman and into the room.

  She moves around in the bathroom for a minute before she comes into the ro
om and stares at me.

  “Where is it?” she asks.

  I lift my brows in surprise. “What?”

  “The razor,” she says, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes are downturned and sad. “I can’t find the razor blade.”

  I shake my head and hug the towel tighter to my body. “I left it on the side of the tub. Maybe it fell behind the toilet.”

  Her forehead wrinkles, and I recognize the expression as pity. “I already checked.”

  I clutch the corner of the towel, feeling the bulk of the razor beneath it. I planned to slip it into a fold of my outfit or inside my panties while I was getting dressed. Having anything—even a small razor—would be better than going out unarmed.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says, taking a slow step towards me. “But I can’t let you leave this room with it. It will be bad for both of us.”

  I cautiously let the razor fall from the fold of the towel and into my palm, and I contemplate attacking this woman. Maybe if I kill her, or incapacitate her, at least, I could run down the hallway and through the door I was brought in. There are a lot of trees around the inn. I could slip into the woods and run for the nearest road. It could work.

  “Please,” the woman says, her shoulders sagging forward.

  The woman is terrified. Not of me, but of the Cartel.

  Like me, she is a slave. Forced to work for them and prepare the women they sell. And what will happen to her if I escape? Even if I don’t kill her, I feel certain the guards wouldn’t let her live down her mistake. She would be beaten and killed.

  And I can’t do that to an innocent woman.

  I sigh and hold out my hand.

  Still cautious, the woman steps forward, palm out, and I drop the razor into her hand.

  Quickly, she retreats into the bathroom and stows it beneath the sink. When she returns, she looks more at ease, though still pained.

  “I understand the instinct,” she says. “I know that you want to fight, but the rules here are different.”