I nod again, forcing my throat to swallow. I don’t know what he means by a deal, but I don’t want it. Deals with the devil are what got me here.
“Deal?” he asks, his grip tightening until I cry out. The piteous sound echoes through the dim, watery swampland around us.
“Deal,” I whisper, curling over my arm. Because what does it matter now? What can he take that hasn’t already been taken from me?
“Good,” he says, releasing my hand and tucking it inside the blanket. “Good girl.”
He stoops to gather me into his arms. He takes a second to get his balance with the backpack on his back and me in his arms, and then he steps into the water. Pain lances through me with each step he takes, though he moves slowly, feeling his way through the shallow pools and soft hillocks. He trips on a few roots, but he doesn’t drop me. I begin to thaw from the cold, the blanket and his body heat seeping into me as he slogs through murky swamp water, over patches of dry land, slipping on mud.
The rhythm of his steps lulls me, and within minutes, I’m drifting into unconsciousness again. I fight to keep my eyes open, to stay awake, to be aware of where he’s taking me. But what’s the point? Why bother?
I let myself slip away.
When I wake, he’s standing over me, laying me in the back seat of a truck. The sky above is pale morning blue now that we’re out of the trees, and by the cabin light, I can make out the features not hidden by the mask. Sharp features, hint of a tan, good lips. Again, I could almost believe he’s familiar if I tried hard enough. But I don’t because he’s not. It doesn’t matter who he is. He’s not one of my boys, and they aren’t my boys any longer. They never were.
It was all a lie.
My lie.
My fault.
I could have stopped it at any time, and it would have been real. But I didn’t. Which means it was all for Mr. D.
“Who are you?” I ask again, my voice reedy and rough and without curiosity.
“Don’t worry,” the man in the mask says. He closes the door and circles the truck to climb in the front seat before speaking again. “You’ll be safe with me.”
He pulls onto the highway, almost empty this time of day. The whirr of the tires beneath us lulls me again, and I feel my battered body struggling for rest, my mind begging for oblivion. I don’t want to think about what happened, about what they did to me. I don’t want to remember the look of betrayal on Royal’s face, the tiny glimpse I had in the mirror before he stopped the car, before his eyes emptied of all life.
I don’t want to remember how he betrayed me, either, the disbelief I felt when he turned away from my pleas and allowed his brothers to take what they’ve been asking for since the first time he told them I belonged to only him. I sink into the blanket and let myself forget.
I wake in a cold sweat of terror when the truck stops.
“Come on,” the masked man says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I don’t move, but he must not expect it. He pulls me out of the back seat, hoisting me into his arms. We enter a building through his garage. There’s a set of stairs and another door. He lays me on a leather couch and takes pictures. I think I should protest, but I don’t. It doesn’t matter.
When he’s done, he takes me into a bathroom and gets in the shower with his clothes on, holding me up by the back of my head like a doll as he hoses me off with the showerhead. His hands are gentle but efficient as he washes every inch of me. I don’t move, not even when he spreads my legs and washes between with the showerhead. The warm water burns my torn flesh like a torch, and I lose my breath at the pain, blackness swimming over my vision. When he’s done, he pulls me out and towels me off, then carries me to a bed and lays me down. He looks at me for a long minute.
“What’d you do to piss off the Dolces?” he asks.
I don’t answer. My throat hurts too much.
He covers me with a blanket and leaves the room. Some time later, I wake when I hear voices arguing in the other room. I close my eyes and try to block them out. I just want everything to go away.
A man comes in and tells me he’s a doctor. I didn’t know they made house calls anymore. He pokes at the torn corners of my mouth, my bruised throat, the burn on my hip. He sets my dislocated shoulder and gives me a sling, puts my hand in a splint. I think how strange it is that before now, losing the use of my right hand would have devastated me. Now, I don’t care.
The doctor gives the man in the mask a bottle of pills and leaves. I turn over with my back to him and sleep again. Later, the masked man comes back. It’s dark outside the window. I know I’ve been here a day or two already. I want to leave, but it’s not safe out there.
The stranger gives me juice and pills to swallow and takes pictures of my face. He stands over the bed for a minute, his phone in one hand. Then he pulls off the sheet, rolls me over on my stomach, and pulls me to the edge of the bed so I’m bent over it. I know he’s going to fuck me, but I don’t fight. What’s the point? I won’t win.
He puts on a condom and pulls out a bottle of lube from the nightstand, running a line down his cock. Then he lowers it to my entrance and pushes in. It hurts, and I cry, but he’s quick. Afterwards, he showers me off again and tucks me into bed. Later, I feel him curl up around me, and I fall back asleep.
three
Royal Dolce
The world comes back slow, like water gathering momentum. I hear voices and soft squeaks and a steady, monotonous beeping. It’s sickeningly familiar.