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But for now, the only thing that matters is getting away—even if it means starting over with nothing. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.
Suddenly, a hand grabs me by the hair, yanking my head back sharply. I let out a panicked gasp as the cold, hard metal of a gun presses against my temple.
“Well, well, well, look who decided to come back,” a sickeningly familiar voice hisses in my ear. My blood runs cold as I recognize Mark’s gruff tones.
His grip tightens and he gives my head another harsh yank. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you, sweetheart,” he growls. “This makes my job a whole lot easier.”
My mind races as I realize the trap I had stumbled into. I never should have come back here. Mark is going to call The Brotherhood, and they will come and take me, just like I feared.
This is what Damian had been trying to protect me from.
“Please,” I beg, my voice shaking. “Mark, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
But Mark just laughs, the sound cold and cruel. “Oh, I don’t think so, darling.” He strikes me hard across the face, making my vision blur. I cry out as pain rockets across my cheeks and mouth.
“The Brotherhood wants you badly, and I’m going to make sure they get you. Oh, what a pretty penny you’ll get me.”
I whimper in pain as Mark drags me toward the Carter house, the gun still pressed against my temple. Terror lashes through me at the thought of going through those doors. I know once I cross that threshold, I’m a goner. The thought of seeing Dennis, Suzanne, and Emma’s smug faces is too much to bear.
My survival instincts kick in, and I begin to frantically struggle against his hold. I claw at his arms, trying to pry his hand off my hair, but Mark’s grip is like iron.
“Let me go, you bastard!” I cry, desperation fueling my actions. I rake my nails across his face, drawing blood, but it only seems to enrage him further. With a growl, he slams me against the side of the house, dazing me.
“Quit fighting, you stupid bitch!” he snarls, tightening his grip on my hair.
My vision swims and my head throbs, but I refuse to give up. I lash out with my fists, striking any part of him I can reach. But Mark is simply too strong, overpowering me with ease.
As we approach the front door, I notice with a sinking feeling that the house is eerily silent and dark—no sign of the Carters anywhere.
“The Carters skipped town after you left,” Mark sneers. “Because of the danger you put them in. But don’t worry, sweetheart. The Brotherhood is more than happy to keep you company. In fact, I know they have a list a mile long of prospective masters who will gladly keep you company for the rest of your miserable fucking life.”
Tears of terror burn in my eyes as Mark opens the door and shoves me inside. I’ve been a stupid, naive idiot. And now I’m trapped with no way out.
My nose is assaulted by the familiar scents of the Carter house as Mark drags me into the kitchen. The musty, stale odor of neglect mingles with the faint, lingering traces of cooking spices—scents that had once been so comforting to me but now turn my stomach.
I shudder involuntarily, memories flooding back. This kitchen had been my domain, a place where the Carters wouldn’t touch me because it would taint their food. I had spent hours not only slaving over food, but tinkering with recipes and creating new and more delicious meals.
If I whipped up something especially delicious, I would receive a rare smile from Dennis and Suzanne. Those smiles used to make my entire day. I thought if I made enough good food, the Carters would finally love me.
But those memories are tainted now, overshadowed by the abuse and manipulation that had occurred within these walls.
As Mark forces me into a chair and begins binding my wrists, I can almost feel the weight of those past traumas pressing down on me. The scrape of the rope against my skin, the hard, unyielding wood of the chair—it’s all too familiar, too visceral. I have to fight the urge to scream, to beg him to stop.
Despite my terror, a small part of my mind registers the sloppy knots—a stark contrast to the intricate bindings my old Navy friend had taught me years ago.
“There, that should keep you from trying anything stupid,” Mark sneers, giving the ropes a final tug.
I fight to keep my hands from trembling, memories of my friend’s lessons flooding my mind. He had been so insistent that I learn these skills, warning me that I might never know when they might come in handy. At the time, I had thought it was just an odd quirk.
But now, I’m thanking my lucky stars.
I force myself to focus, to push past the fear and the nausea and the memories, and slowly, methodically, I begin to work at the knots. The ropes chafe and burn, but I ignore the pain, my sole focus on freeing myself.
As Mark fishes his phone out of his pocket to make a call, my heart races, adrenaline fueling my efforts. I can’t let myself be taken by The Brotherhood. I have to get out of here, no matter what.
“Hey, babe, guess who I’ve got?” Mark drawls, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s right, the prodigal daughter herself!”
Although I can’t hear exactly what the other person is saying, I can hear their voice. And it’s a voice I recognize.
