Page 79 of The Dark Stranger
He smiles faintly, not cruelly — almost professionally — and walks away toward the small office in the corner. The door shuts behind him.
I lean toward Inez as far as the restraints allow. Her breathing is uneven, bordering on hysterical. “Look at me,” I whisper urgently. “Slow down. Breathe. I don’t know what they’ve done to you yet, but panicking is going to make it worse. Stay with me. Okay? Stay here.”
She nods through tears, trying.
I force myself to focus, straining to hear through the thin office walls. Lionetti’s voice carries clearly enough.
“Have the friend examined first,” he says. “Make sure she’s cleaned up and ready.”
Ready for what?
My stomach turns.
A man asks something I can’t make out.
“And Becca?” Lionetti responds after a pause. “She goes to the club. I already have interest lined up. Keep her pristine. I want her presented properly.”
Interest.
Presented.
The words rearrange themselves in my head until the truth clicks into place.
This isn’t ransom.
This isn’t intimidation.
This is a sale.
A violent wave of nausea rises up my throat. My wrists strain against the cuffs, metal biting deeper into skin that’s already raw. I try to steady my breathing, but my chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the entire building.
“They’re selling us,” I whisper to Inez, the realization hollow and sharp.
She shakes her head like if she refuses to understand it won’t be real.
I twist in the chair, testing the bolts on the floor, trying to find weakness in the metal. There’s none. My muscles are already sore from earlier. I’m not strong enough to break free, and they know it.
Footsteps approach from behind.
Before I can turn fully, something sharp pierces the side of my neck. A quick burn, then warmth spreading under my skin.
My body reacts before my brain does. I jerk forward, but my limbs feel slow and heavy. The concrete floor tilts. The light overhead blurs into a halo.
I try to fight it. I really do.
I think about my shop. My home. Every client who ever trusted me. I think about how Jenna's laugh sounded when she left. I refuse to let that be the last thing I remember.
But the darkness presses in anyway.
The final thing I register is Lionetti's voice in the distance, instructing someone to handle me carefully.
Then everything goes black.
I wake up to pain.
Not the sharp kind—the dull, bone-deep ache that tells me my body has been moved, handled, positioned while I was unconscious. My shoulders throb. My wrists burn. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and set on fire at the same time.
I try to open my eyes, but something's wrong. The world is muted, shadowed. I blink hard, trying to clear my vision, but it doesn't help. There's something on my face. Something covering my eyes—not blocking them completely, but obscuring everything, turning the room into a hazy blur of shapes and colors.
