Chapter 1
Noise…
Chaos…
Briar…
The first thing I’m aware of is that I’m blindfolded—a fact that could be a blessing in disguise as my thoughts blur and jumble together. Only one coherent question escapes the fray:Where am I?
No answer comes to me immediately. My straining ears can make out only a few words muttered nearby in unfamiliar voices. Deep,masculinevoices.
Various smells irritate my nostrils as well: sweat, body odor, male.Allmale. God,where am I?
I try flexing my shoulders only to wince. My hands are impossible to move, tied behind my back with something rough. Rope?
Oh, God.
Familiar terror gnaws at my belly as moisture gathers in my armpits and sweeps across my palms. At least, now, I have an inkling of my fate. I’m trapped in another one of his games. My nostrils flare with renewed purpose: seeking outhisscent.
He must have hired lackeys this time; foreign body odor drowns out the stench of his cologne. I can’t smell him.
But you can survive this.I fall back on the mantra that has gotten me through every day for sixteen years.You can survive, Ellen. Focus, Ellen. Breathe, Ellen.
Ten hours—that’s how long I endured last time. My resolve had nearly splintered by the end. I’d almost given in. Almost.
But even psychological wounds eventually heal and leave tougher scar tissue behind. I can last another ten hours withRobert. My brain makes that distinction as the barrage of scents dissipates, revealing one that overpowers the rest: a man’s. I taste the nuances in his stench rather than smell them—he’sthatpotent, composed of a multitude of different things.
Cigar smoke.
Vodka.
One scent in particular makes my heart stop. Salty and sweet, it’s almost as familiar as the flowery perfume wafting from my skin now.Blood?
Robert never smokes. He doesn’t drink. Whenever he hurts me, he always washes his hands before and after. It is our routine, and he is nothing if not predictable.
No. This is someone new. Someone taller, whose shadow completely blots out what little detail plays across my blindfold. His footsteps are steady. Heavy.
“This her?”
I sense the outline of his fingers before the callused edge of one grazes my forehead.
“You made sure?”
His voice is deep. Almosttoodeep to be intelligible: a series of grated, rumbling notes. There’s an accent tucked among them—something thick. Eastern European? Briar had a maid from there once. Sonja.
Sonja liked to read Jane Eyre. She liked scribbling love notes to Robert Sr.’s men before fucking them in the broom closet late at night when she thought no one was looking. Sonja liked a lot of things before Robert took a liking to her.
But another figure from my memory possessed this accent as well. Even though his words were hissed in a whisper, I still remember.Breathe!
“Bring her.”
Those two words snap me back to the present. Unfamiliar hands grab my shoulders, cinching the soft silk of my blouse.Briar’sblouse. She dressed me in it lovingly, remarking on how the color complemented my eyes. Our eyes, the same shade of light blue.
“Move!”
A tug on my shoulders hauls me upright and unseen hands shove me forward. Every sound echoes. Four footsteps, including mine. The biggest man takes the lead, I suspect, his gait rhythmic against creaking floorboards.
In contrast, the men holding me dig their nails into my skin and scurry toward an unknown destination. A rusty squeal seconds later conjures the image of an old door opening, and the footsteps trail off.