Page 18 of Chained

"Computers, mainly. I don't really do all of this." He smiles nervously, the small shake in his voice clear.

"I like to paint," I say confidently, a lot more than I feel. "And read…"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I love to read the classics."

"You'll love the manor then, we have a huge library." His voice has a hint of excitement now, and I know all hope is dying with every word, but I have to keep trying. The girls shuffle beside me, the older ones shooting daggers at me for speaking to him. I duck down long enough to mouth the words, trust me. They don't, and I know they don't, but screw them. At least I'm trying. They turn their backs to me, arms wrapped around one another.

"Amora, what are you doing?" Annabelle whispers, her big blue eyes looking up at me. I take her hand into mine, giving it a quick squeeze, hoping she'll have faith in me. I can do this.

"You know I have a huge library right next to where I live." I try to sound confident, to sound convincing. I lean back up, making sure he can see my eyes through the rearview. I don't look away when he flickers to it, holding his gaze the whole time.

"That must have been nice." His voice is lower now, and I can hear the sadness in his tone.

"Yeah, I lived there with my twin sister," I push, hoping it's working. I see him frown, like my words have triggered something. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter as he slows down. I look ahead and spot the huge house waiting behind some steel gates. We're here. I've run out of time.

"Listen, I can give you money. I promise we'll never tell anyone about you, this place, nothing. I swear, please just let us go." My voice is urgent, my hand pressed against the glass that separates us. I hear the wheels crunching against the gravel, the gate's hinges screaming, and the serpent symbol splitting in half as they open.

I swallow. I want to scream at him, to smash my fist against the glass and force him to respond. The car comes to a complete stop, and he sits there. His hands still on the steering wheel, his chest moving quicker.

"I can't." He lets out a small breath, his hand pausing on the door as he turns to me. His face is hollow, his eyes filled with sadness and regret. "If I could change things for you, I would," he whispers softly, "and I'm sorry for my part in your pain."

I don't reply, I can't. My voice doesn't work, my mind incapable of forming a sentence. Every last bit of hope drains from my body. This is it. It's over. Numbness washes over me, filling my chest and dulling the ache—something I'm thankful for.

He slams the door behind him, and I slump against the van, my hand moving to Annabelle to clutch her to me. I can feel the tears threatening to fall, but I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I tried. I tried so hard.

Their footsteps are loud outside on the gravel, I can hear them approaching the door, and I grip Annabelle tighter as she begins whispering urgently to herself, "No, no, no, no," over and over again. I hush her like a mother soothes her baby, hoping it'll help. They're arguing just outside. I can hear their harsh tones, but their words are almost inaudible, just a few here and there. They're talking about us.

"We can't do this, Jax." The driver's voice is stressed.

"It's us or them." It's the guy with the gun.

I hold my breath as I hear the click of the lock. The doors swing open, and they both stand there, eyes fixed on us. I can't help but scowl. I hate them.

The sky is beginning to darken now as a storm threatens to break through. They drag the other girls out first, both of them turning to look at me with a flash of horror on their faces. I feel a little guilty that I hadn't even asked their names—it didn't even enter my mind. I watch as two more men approach, taking the girls by their arms and leading them away.

The guy with the gun leans in, but he won't look at me again. He completely ignores me, acting like I don't exist. He just leans in further, grabbing Annabelle and tugging her towards the door. "C'mon, let's go." His voice sharp as she fights against his grip. His jaw tightens—the more she fights, the more she pisses him off. His hair falls into his eyes as a small bead of sweat drips from his brow.

I know I'm testing my luck, but I can't just let him take her—not easily, anyway. Whilst his hand is digging into her arm, pulling her closer to the exit, I stretch out my leg, and the bottom of my foot connects with his jaw.

"Get the fuck off her!" I roar, my throat hoarse from no water, but I don't care. I kick him again, but he's too fast—he dodges it.

Grabbing my ankle in a vice grip, his fingers dig in hard. "Listen, if you want to survive this place—" He shoves my foot down hard, and it slams against the floor of the van. Pain flares in my ankle, but I bite it back, eyes shooting daggers at him as I shift closer to Annabelle. He sighs. "You need to learn how to play by the rules. You try that shit in there? You're dead."

I tilt my head to the side, trying to read his face. I don't doubt that he's telling the truth—that if I act up or cause a scene, they'll kill me in a heartbeat. But there's something about his face, the way his eyes seem so full of hurt and pain. He doesn't feel like the rest.

"Please, make this easier for all of us and get out of the van." His voice is a touch softer, holding his hand out for me. Annabelle is firmly tucked into my side and looking up at me, waiting for me to make a move. I give her a nod—it's either die in here or try and survive long enough in there to escape.

I take his hand, his palm rough and calloused, and he pulls me out of the van. The gravel is hard under my feet and the air so cold it's giving me goosebumps. Annabelle climbs out after, her small hands gripping onto my dress as he herds us towards the manor. I stop for a second, taking it all in. It's huge. Bigger than any house I've ever seen. It sits three storeys tall, all grey stone and narrow windows lined up in perfect rows. The roof is steep, scattered with chimneys, and the front doors are wide and heavy, black paint. Steps lead up from a gravel drive, and the walls are covered in patches of old ivy. The garden out front is overgrown and wild, weeds pushing through the cracks in the stone walkway. A few lights glow in the windows, but most of them are dark. I swallow hard. It doesn't look like a home. Then a darker thought enters. No. Because it's a cage.

He tugs us through the entrance, and once inside, I spot the other girls hugging themselves whilst waiting in a line. We're pushed behind them when an older woman in her late fifties wearing a scarlet dress approaches, her hair and skin immaculate.

"Tut." Her disapproval of us is loud, her eyes darting from one girl to the next, flickering from our toes to our faces as she observes us.

"They'll need cleaning. Send for Martha and the crew," she says over her shoulder to one of the staff. She doesn't speak to us, just turns on her heel and walks away without another word.

My eyes scan the room—it's huge, the ceiling so high with paintings lining every wall, the floor marble and glistening. In the centre is a spiral staircase, the kind you see in magazines or read about in books. It's elegant, but it's also claustrophobic. Almost as if with every ounce of bleach they use to clean this place, they suck the oxygen from the air.