Page 9 of Lost & Found

I didn’t know what else to do but cry. At some point my body gave out and sleep took me there on the floor. When I woke, the room was the same as it had been before. The sound of the door being unlocked had my head snapping in that direction.

Flinching back, I braced myself. X stepped inside. The look in her eyes made my stomach drop. I had seen the look of fear before. Pain. Submission. But this was different. This was despair.

She moved toward me, helping me to my feet. Her fingers found the mark on my arm, tracing it beneath my sleeve the way she did when she was trying to steady me.

Her back was turned away from the camera, and then her mouth moved. At first, I thought I had imagined it. Then I caught the formation of words on her lips.

“Not your fault.”

Barely a breath. Barely a sound. Her lips snapped closed immediately after, as if she had said too much. She turned toward the door and gestured. I followed. When I stepped into the hallway, the first thing I noticed was the cold.

Summer and Winter were already there, dressed in their thin nightgowns, feet bare against the stone. They looked exhausted and as if they had been roused from sleep. They stood at attention, shoulders squared, heads bowed.

Summer’s fingers were curled so tight against her legs her knuckles had gone white. Winter’s jaw trembled, just once, before she steadied. X didn’t speak. She gestured once more, and we fell in line. The three of us followed her down the darkened corridor.

The walls narrowed as we walked. Our bare feet made almost no sound. The further we went, the darker it became, until the only light was the dull glow leaking from beneath the door at the end of the hall.

The two-way mirror. The viewing room. We were arranged in our usual places, an obvious gap between Winter and Summer. I took my place next to the little blonde girl and faced the glass. X stood beside me.

The reflection of the three of us girls along with X stared back at us, and then it switched. I stopped breathing. On the other side, Mischa stood alone. Her leotard was torn off one shoulder, and her ballet slippers were untied.

Her hair was messy, and she swayed where she stood. She didn’t belong there. It was a room for torture, not for a dancing little mouse. This is it.

The thought came fast and sure. He’s going to do what he said. He’s going to kill her. They talked about it all the time. About how easy it would be. Everyone except the Collector. My nails bit into my palms.

The door on the other side opened. The Mask entered first. Mischa flinched so hard her knees buckled. Winter sucked in a sharp breath. I locked my knees so I wouldn’t fold. Summer’s fingers curled into the fabric of her nightgown.

“Oh, mouse,” she whispered ever so quietly.

We were going to watch her die. As if he had heard my thoughts, he looked up at the mirror. Our eyes locked. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to scream—don’t hurt her.

Then he moved. He circled her, staring at her with contempt. His fist raised. The crack of it snapped through the speaker mounted above the mirror. Mischa’s head whipped to the side before she fell to the ground.

A sound tore out of her. It was broken and only a gasp. For now. He yanked her up by her hair and hit her again. This time she stood on her own. Another hit came. And another. He screamed in her face. He called her vile names that burned through me with shame.

The room filled with her screams as he notched things higher. I didn’t want to watch. None of us did. Panic clawed up my throat, sharp and wild. There were only a handful of times I’d been this afraid since coming here.

The carpenter’s box. The lake. The dogs. The branding. Summer made a small choking sound. Winter’s eyes filled and spilled over, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Even she couldn’t hold it in.

X stood beside me, and when I looked at her, I almost wished I hadn’t. Tears poured down her face, unchecked and constant. Her jaw was clenched so tightly, I thought her teeth might crack. Her hands were fisted at her sides, knuckles white, trembling with the effort not to move.

She wouldn’t intervene. She wouldn’t survive if she did. On the other side of the glass, Mischa crumpled, and the sound of her crying—the sweet, angelic voice from the other side of my bedroom wall—splintered into something unrecognizable.

I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from screaming. The Mask raged, and Mischa’s cries grew weaker. He screamed, called her names and threatened to rape her, then kill her and rape her again.

“The only thing keeping me from doing it is your audience. I took a poll and they decided your fate, you stupid little bitch. Are you ready to see what they chose for you?”

He yanked her once more up on her feet, ripping a chunk of her hair out this time. Despite the silently delivered words X had given me, I knew. This was my fault, and his next words proved it.

“New rule for you. Going forward, if you so much as look at any of the girls without approval, I will line them up and do this to them as well. Do you understand me, you stupid girl?” he screamed.

“Yes, Sir,” she sobbed.

Her fan’s chosen punishment was more than I could handle. The Mask grabbed the ball gag. Next, the slave whip—the one they used on X regularly—was brought out. And it was at that point, my sweet Mischa Natalya passed out.

For what felt like an eternity, he whipped her. She’d come to and then pass out from pain. He stood over her tiny body and hit her over and over until her entire back, from the top of her neck to the bottom of her ankles, was filled with angry red welts. Several areas were bleeding by the time he was done.

At one point, she even lost control of her bladder. That caused him to lose control even more. The Collector had to step in, and he never did. The look on his face when he finally stopped hitting her haunted my dreams. He knew he had gone too far.