Chapter 24 – EMMA
EMMA
The sedan’s engine cuts off, leaving nothing but the kind of silence that exists only in the deepest wilderness. No traffic hum or distant voices, no city sounds at all, just the whisper of wind through towering pines, and the occasional crack of settling wood.
The absence of human noise is so complete it makes my ears ring. That and the abject terror that’s had me in its grip since Dimitri and Kozlov dragged me from my room and told me we were taking a little trip.
Alone. Without Bodhi.
I reach for that warmth in my chest, that thread connecting us, but it’s faint now. Stretched thin by distance. I can barely feel him, and the absence makes me want to scream.
When the hood is lifted from my head, I blink against the sudden light and stare through the car window at the cabin that stands deep in the forest like something from a nightmare.
It’s nothing like Kozlov’s usual taste for luxury, just weathered logs and a sagging porch, and windows as dark as dead eyes.
The structure looks abandoned. Forgotten.
Like something out of a horror movie. The kind of place deep in the woods where nobody would hear you scream.
We’re so far from civilization that the air itself feels different. Thinner. Colder. Each breath burns my lungs.
“Out.” One of the guards opens my door and hauls me from the back seat, his grip bruising on my arm.
My legs barely hold me as I’m marched toward the porch. Every step feels like walking toward my own execution. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Whatever happens inside that cabin, the Emma who walks out, if she gets out at all, won’t be the same person that went in.
The interior is dimly lit, smells musty, and furnished with the bare minimum. A threadbare couch. A scarred wooden table. The windows are so grimy they barely let in light. Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of a narrow bed and a dresser. A small, functional bathroom lay beyond that.
Kozlov is already inside, speaking in low tones with two people I recognize. A man and a woman, both dressed far too elegantly for this rustic hellhole.
The Ashworths. Two people I prayed I’d never meet again.
They turn to look at me, and the hunger in his eyes makes my stomach lurch.
“Oh, she’s just as perfect as I remember.” His voice is cultured, refined, and completely at odds with what I know he’s here to do. “Even better than before.”
The woman’s gaze is clinical as it travels over me. Assessing. I don’t think she agrees with her husband, but she’s clever enough not to comment. “Did you bring everything I requested?”
“Of course, Mrs. Ashworth.” Kozlov gestures to one of the guards, who produces a garment bag. “The dress, the cosmetics. Everything on your list.”
As though Kozlov is her concierge rather than a dangerous criminal, Mrs. Ashworth takes the bag without acknowledging him and unzips it, revealing a slash of red silk. She holds it up, examining it in the dim light, then looks at me with something that might be satisfaction.
“White would be too… obvious,” she says, as if explaining her choice to a slow child. “And red won’t show any... stains.”
The easy way she says it makes me shudder.
Turning to her husband, she smiles wickedly. “I thought you’d like how at odds it is. This innocent thing in a crimson dress. A beauty trapped in this ugly place.”
Not so innocent any more, I think smugly.
Maybe I’m never getting out of here, but they’re not leaving with what they came for.
“Make yourself presentable. Shower. Hair down. Makeup should be subtle but pretty. My husband prefers a natural look.” Mrs. Ashworth hands me the garment bag.
“If you mess it up on purpose, my husband will enjoy teaching you some manners, virgin or not. Believe me, while I might enjoy that, you won’t. ”
Her grin widens at my horrified expression. She’s torturing me on purpose, revelling in amplifying my distress, as if it’s my fault her husband is a sick fuck.
I want to spit in her face. I want to claw at those cold, soulless eyes and scream that I’m a person, not some doll to be abused for her husband’s pleasure, but the guards are watching, and they have guns. And there’s nowhere to run even if I could get past them.
So, fingers rolling over the tiny device stashed in my pocket, I take the dress and allow myself to be led to the bedroom.
The room is as dilapidated as the rest of the cabin, just a narrow bed, a dresser, and a window that looks out into endless forest. Outside, a thin branch sways in the wind, tapping the dirty glass like a warning.
On the dresser, there’s a small makeup bag along with a mirror and a curling iron.
Mrs. Ashworth thinks of everything, apparently, except basic human decency.
In the tiny, attached bathroom, the shower runs lukewarm, but I can’t stop shivering. Through the thin walls, I hear their voices. Kozlov talking business with the Ashworths, furniture scraping across the floor, and something that sounds like equipment being assembled.
The sounds make my stomach churn with dread, but I force myself to take my time. Washing my hair twice, brushing it carefully. Every minute I can stall is another minute before I have to face whatever’s waiting for me.
And maybe, God, please, every minute is another chance for Bodhi to find me.
I beg him, through whatever this connection is between us, to come for me. For a moment, I feel nothing but cold emptiness, and panic claws at my throat. He might not even know I’m gone yet.
Then, faint, so faint I might be imagining it, a flicker of warmth.
Distant. Moving.
I’m coming.
The words aren’t spoken. They’re not even really words. Just a feeling, a certainty that settles into my bones. I press my hand to my chest, tears pricking my eyes.
It could be wishful thinking, a delusion born of desperation, but I cling to it anyway.
When I can’t justify staying any longer, I wrap myself in a thin towel and return to the bedroom. The red silk dress whispers against my skin as I slip it on, the fabric clinging like it were made for me.
No underwear, of course.
My nipples pebble in the chilly air, and I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the urge to cry.
I sit at the mirror and begin applying makeup with trembling hands.
Foundation to hide my pale, drawn pallor.
Concealer under my eyes to mask the dark shadows.
Blush to give the illusion of health. With nowhere to hide the tiny black camera, I slide it into the bottom of the make-up bag, reluctant to leave it behind even though I have no idea if it’s even working.
In the mirror, I look like I’m getting ready for a date. Only my eyes give away the truth. The disconnect between my appearance and the horror clawing at my insides is surreal.
A sharp knock on the door makes me jump, sending mascara streaking across my cheek.
“Two more minutes.” Mrs. Ashworth’s voice is patient but firm. “Don’t keep my husband waiting.”
I wipe away the smudge with shaking fingers and finish my makeup.
Through the walls, the sounds continue. Something heavy is being dragged across the floor. Mr. Ashworth’s cultured voice gives instructions I can’t quite make out, followed by his wife’s clipped response.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Now, Emma.”
I stand on unsteady legs, smoothing down the silk dress one final time. Taking a breath that does nothing to calm my racing heart, I open the bedroom door.
The hallway stretches before me like a path to hell. Warm light spills from the living room, and I hear the murmur of voices as I approach.
When I step into the doorway, the sight that greets me stops me cold.
All the furniture is gone. The couch, the chairs, the coffee table, everything’s been cleared away. In the centre of the room, someone has placed a mattress on the hardwood floor. The thin white sheet and lack of quilt makes it look clinical.
Beside it are several lengths of rope in different thicknesses.
And yet somehow, worse than that, in the corner, a red light blinks steadily like a malevolent eye from a professional-grade video camera mounted on a tripod.
Already recording.
“No.” The word tears from my throat, and all composure leaves me. “No, no, no.”
I stumble backward, my heels catching on the threshold, but iron-strong hands clamp down on my arms before I can flee. The guards appear on either side of me like shadows, their grips unforgiving, as they drag me forward despite my struggles.
“Don’t do this.” I’m gasping as my feet drag across the hardwood while they haul me toward the mattress. “This is crazy. You know this is insane, right? All of this. Why are you helping him?” I demand of the guards, but they refuse to even look at me.
“Magnificent.” As Mr. Ashworth steps forward, his eyes travel over me with naked hunger. “Absolutely magnificent. You’ve outdone yourself, Kozlov.”
Kozlov stands by the door, arms folded, his expression bored. “Unfortunately, we’ve had to cancel the auction due to the incident at my property.”
“A shame.” Mr. Ashworth circles me slowly, like a collector examining a new acquisition. “I was looking forward to the competition. Though I confess, I’m not disappointed with this alternative arrangement.”
He stares around the bleak cabin with wonder. “The remote cabin. The rawness of it. This will make for an interesting aesthetic.”
He thinks he’s directing a masterpiece, not the snuff movie it really is.
“I was thinking...” Mr. Ashworth reaches out and touches my hair, letting the curls slide through his fingers.
I flinch away, too scared to speak, but the guards hold me fast.
“Perhaps we could still find a way to take her home with us. Keep her somewhere private. I think I’d enjoy having access to her whenever I wanted.”
Mrs. Ashworth’s expression doesn’t change, but something hardens in her eyes.
“We’ve discussed this, darling. A onetime experience.
You’ll have the video to revisit whenever you like, but keeping her would be.
.. complicated. Especially if what Mr. Kozlov has said about the auction potentially being compromised is true.
We don’t want someone coming looking for her. ”
Ashworth narrows his eyes, looking irritated by her opposition to his plans. “You worry too much.”
His dismissive tone doesn’t help his case.
“I worry exactly the right amount.” Her voice is ice-cold. “That’s why you’ve never been caught.”
Kozlov checks his watch, clearly impatient. “Perhaps we could move this along? I have somewhere else I need to be.”
Even though I hate the man, the thought of him leaving me, giving me to these strangers, sends me into a tailspin as dots appear before my eyes.
This can’t really be happening.
“Of course.” Mrs. Ashworth’s smile is paper-thin. “My husband will verify her condition shortly, and assuming everything is in order, you’ll have your money within minutes.”
Verify her condition. A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up my throat. They paid a quarter of a million dollars for a virgin, and they’re about to discover I’m not one.
Part of me wants to tell them. Watch their faces crumble with disappointment. But another part, the part that’s still fighting to survive, knows that might make things worse. An angry Mr. Ashworth is potentially more dangerous than an eager one.
“Excellent.” Kozlov settles into a chair by the wall, pulling out his phone. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”
He’s anxious. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flicking toward the door. Something has him spooked. He wants to be anywhere but here, but he won’t leave without his money.
The guards force me down onto the mattress, the bare fabric rough against my skin. One of them produces rope and begins binding my wrists without any concern for my blood flow or comfort.
“No need for you to hold her steady.” Mr. Ashworth instructs, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to his wife. “I like to be hands on. Makes the conquest more satisfying.”
I can’t breathe. And I think my heart has stopped. My limbs and my brain feel heavy and sluggish.
“Please.” I’m begging now, tears threatening to ruin my carefully applied makeup. “Please, you don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll disappear.”
Mr. Ashworth laughs. “But I want to.”
Kozlov stares blankly at me when I meet his gaze, imploring him to stop this madness, but like the Ashworths, he’s a monster with no conscience. He sees me as dollar signs, not as a person.
“I know you won’t tell anyone, little one.” Mr. Ashworth loosens his tie with a silky whisper. “You won’t get the chance.”
Mrs. Ashworth’s voice carries no emotion at all. “The camera is recording. Whenever you’re ready.”
He kneels on the edge of the mattress, and I scramble backward instinctively, my bound hands clumsy as I try to put distance between us, but there’s nowhere to go.
His hand shoots out and grabs my ankle, his grip painful, as he drags me toward him. The fabric burns against my bare thighs where the dress has ridden up, and I scream, fingers clawing at the thin sheet, kicking out as hard as I can.
“Don’t worry.” His breath is hot against my face as he looms over me. “I’ll be gentle. For this part.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. This is it. This is really happening.
Hold on.
The voice in my head is so clear, so certain, that my eyes fly open. It’s not my thought. It’s his. Bodhi. I can feel him now, blazing through the bond like a wildfire, getting closer with every heartbeat.
As I fight to get my elbows underneath me, anything to make this harder for him, a shadow passes the window, and that warmth in my chest explodes into something fierce and protective.
I don’t know how I know, but suddenly, I’m certain.
He’s here.
The thought gives me just enough courage to meet Mr. Ashworth’s gaze with something other than defeat.
I don’t know what Bodhi is, but as the same large shadow passes the next window, letting everyone know there’s something moving out there other than birds and branches, I know they should be very afraid.
A surge of rage, pure, primal, murderous rage, that isn’t mine rises inside me.
“You should run.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “While you still can.”