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I almost ask who that is, but bite my tongue. I'm not here to question things, just figure them out.
"Yes, sir," I murmur, and he turns his soulless brown eyes to me.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I drop my gaze. He's never touched me, but I can see in his eyes that he wants to. He would love to break me, just like he does the other girls who come through here. I'm kept alive and semi-whole because my father said I was good with numbers. Fortuitous timing for me, since the organization was drowning in a sea of debt from their frivolous spending and mismanagement. I'm not happy about the fact that I've made them more money, but this is quite literally life and death.
"You've been around a long time, Aelia," he says, twirling his pen between his fingers.
I refuse to answer. We play this game at least once a week, him baiting me and me resolutely staying quiet.
"I bet you feel comfortable here now, don't you?"
Internally, I snort. As if anyone could be comfortable here when they're the prey. Opening the statements for the offshore accounts, I check the balances. After a certain amount of zeros, it ceases to be money and becomes merely numbers. Jenkins taps his pen on his desk, probably thinking he can annoy me into answering. I tense when he pushes out of his chair, keeping my eyes fixed on the screen as he approaches.
My stomach turns as he sweeps my dark brown hair over my shoulder, fingers brushing against my neck. Clicking on the cameras, I cycle through them. Anything to keep him from seeing my trembling hands. He leans into my back, planting his hands on the desk and boxing me in.
"If I wouldn't be losing a valuable asset, I'd use your body for what it was made for. Since I can't, go down to the Pit and find someone who looks like you—bring her to me. Maybe I'll even let you watch as I break her."
I nod stiffly as his breath ghosts across me, making my skin crawl. Swallowing hard, I wait until he's stepped away before pushing back in my chair. His arm brushes mine as he adjusts himself, and I hurry for the door.
"One more thing, Aelia," he calls, and I freeze as my hand rests on the knob. "You'll be working the floor tonight. Wear something nice."
Smoothing down the excessively short gray pencil skirt I'm currently wearing, I finally make my escape. Grant leers at me from the end of the hall, and I take the back staircase down. As much as I hate going to the Pit, it's better than being stuck in a room with Jenkins.
The deeper I descend into the bowels of the mansion, the darker it gets. I honestly can't remember the last time I've seen the sun. Sometimes I feel as if it no longer exists. Is there a dawn in hell? Probably not. I assume it's mostly fire and brimstone lighting the way. It's early enough in the night I don't pass anyone. Most are still sleeping, waiting for the night's festivities to begin.
The guard at the entrance to the basement nods to me, pity lining his eyes as he keys in the code and pulls the door open. He's one of the few men who feels anything other than contempt for me. Most of them hate the fact that I'm allowed to walk freely. They’re constantly fielding off advances from members demanding me for the night. No one takes it well when they’re told I’m off-limits. A lone woman in this place only creates problems for the guards, making me a prime target for their ire.
The large space in the basement is lined with makeshift rooms, one step up from cages, really. There are no doors, just open canvas tents to create large bedrooms. Rachel called it fucked-up glamping. Actual cages line the other side, though they’re only occupied by men.
No one tries to escape. There's nowhere to go, anyway. Most of them have been broken long before they make it down here.
Heads whip in my direction as my heels click across the stones, following my progress. They all know why I'm here, and they despise me for it. They’ll never hate me as much as I hate myself, though. A lot of them have requested to bleach their hair so they no longer resemble me. Even the ones whose light brown strands aren’t even close to mine beg to change, fearful they will be chosen next. One girl whose request was denied huddles in the corner of her room with several others around her.
I used to apologize when I came to get them. At that point, I was beyond tears. The woman I chose wasn't. She begged me not to choose her, but the decision was already made. Jenkins came with me those first few times to make sure I did my job correctly. As soon as I had looked at the young woman, his mind was made up. By the time she left his office, the tears had disappeared, along with the light in her eyes.
This isn’t the first time I'll be forced to watch. I've listened to their screams, seen their bruises and burns, and scrubbed their blood from too many surfaces. It's not the sex for Jenkins. No, he likes to hear them shatter, both in mind and body. And since he can't do it to me, he'll do it to the others.
"Mistress,” Rachel calls. “Out hunting again?"
I grind my teeth, hating the nickname they've given me. Rachel has been here longer than most. She survives on sarcasm and grit. No one knows why they keep her around instead of sending her to the Auction where most of the women go. The VIP members would pay good money for her, but she just stays here in the Pit, taking care of the others.
"Take the bitch. She's getting on my nerves," Benjamin calls from the other side of the room.
Glancing toward the cages housing the men, my heart races. He's been here for a while, too, waiting for his turn. I thought with his classically beautiful looks, he'd be snatched up. He reminds me of Hermes, the Greek god, with his blond hair and the impish tilt to his chin. Resting his arms through the bars, he cocks his head and grins at me.
"They're all bitches to you, Benjamin. You'll have to be more specific," Rachel shouts back with a laugh.
A guard walks by, slamming a baton against the metal bars, but Benjamin doesn't flinch. They used to keep the men and women fully separated, but there isn't as much space in this building. The last area we occupied had a whole acre to house everything. The cold weather forced the Guild south. They never fully set up in Synd, a city several hours to the west.
I stop in a doorway almost at the end of the room. Scanning the space, I spot the woman lounging on the mattress. I knock on the wooden support, and she rolls her head toward me. Her eyes are green, but our facial structures are similar enough. Dark hair, a little lighter than mine, fans across the makeshift pillow. She needs a shower and some new clothes. It's the only kindness I can offer them without giving too much away.
"Who?" she whispers.
Swallowing the bile creeping up my throat, I steel myself. "Jenkins, Ingrid."
She nods, as if she knew the answer all along and just needed the confirmation. "Well, at least I get a shower then, huh?”
"There is that," I murmur.
