CHAPTER 8
RUBY P.O.V.
The dried flake of blood on my left knuckle looks exactly like rust. I dig my thumbnail under the edge of it and slowly peel it backward, letting the sharp, biting sting of raw skin anchor my brain to this freezing concrete floor.
If I focus entirely on the microscopic pain of my own knuckle, I don't have to listen to the wet, choking sounds of the women sobbing in the dark around me. The smell down here is deeply unhinged—a mix of industrial bleach and unwashed bodies, layered over the low-frequency, rhythmic thud of a bass line vibrating through the pipes from the billionaire gala forty floors above us. I lean my back against a vibrating metal pipe, staring at the single fluorescent bulb flickering on the ceiling, calculating the exact frequency of its pulse to keep my mind from shattering into a million useless pieces. If I let myself spiral, I’ll end up like the girl crumpled next to me, crying so hard she’s hyperventilating.
"Please, I have a daughter..."
"Shut up. Crying makes you look weak, and they like weak."
I don't even know who says it from the shadows, but they're completely right.
Once you start crying, you've already lost the internal war. Just keep breathing, Ruby. Just keep counting. I run my thumb over the bruised rib on my left side, courtesy of the bastards who threw me into the back of a van, and then touch the lingering sting of the needle site on my neck. My brother did this. Desmond. The white-hot, feral rage I feel for that absolute waste of a human being is the only thing keeping my blood warm right now. He sold me out for gambling debts. Whenever the panic tries to crawl up my throat, I just picture breaking Desmond’s jaw with a tire iron, and the fear gets swallowed by pure, unfiltered violence.
The heavy electronic lock on the reinforced door buzzes.
It sounds like a hornet’s nest dying inside a tin can.
The metal door swings inward, hitting the concrete wall with a massive clang that sucks the oxygen straight out of the holding pen.
Two guards step inside. They’re decked out in matte-black tactical gear, their boots crunching over the gritty floor with military precision.
They don’t look at our faces. They’re just scanning the barcode tags zip-tied to our wrists.
The blinding white glare of their tactical flashlights sweeps over the huddled mass of women until one of the beams stops dead on my face.
"That one. The one with the eyes."
The air in the room instantly vanishes. I can actually feel the other girls pulling physically away from me, their bodies shrinking backward into the darkness, completely relieved that the target is me and not them.
One of the guards steps forward, slapping a heavy baton against his thick thigh with a dull, rhythmic thud.
"Don't make this difficult, sweetheart."
"Stand up. Now."
I don't wait for him to reach for me. I shift my weight and stand up first, forcing my spine completely straight even though my knees violently pop in the dead silence. I am not going to let some tactical rent-a-cop drag me across the floor like a dead animal. I square my shoulders, lifting my chin so I’m staring directly into the black, unreflective glass of the guard's visor. He’s expecting me to cower, to beg, to drop to the floor.
The absolute audacity of these men thinking I’m just going to fold.
I slowly smooth down the wrinkled fabric of the degrading, paper-thin white slip they forced me into, treating the gesture with agonizing dignity.
"I can walk."
"Touch me and I'll bite your throat out."
The guard lets out a dry scoff, stepping into my space. "Keep your hands off me," I spit, but he completely ignores it, lunging forward.
They grab me by the upper arms with bruising, crushing grips, their massive gloved hands digging directly into my triceps.
They haul me out of the holding pen and into the hallway.
My bare feet slap against the freezing linoleum, the recycled air out here biting into my skin through the sheer slip.
I dig my heels in just slightly—not enough to stop them, because I physically can't, but just enough to create friction burn on my soles and make them work for every single inch.
"Watch the corner."
"She's a feisty one. Hemlock's guests will love that."
"Quiet, girl."
I keep my mouth shut, memorizing the route as they march me toward the service elevators.
Left at the junction. Three doors on the right.
Sterile floor wax, cheap cigarettes radiating off the guard on my right, the painful pinch of a thumb digging a trench into my arm muscle.
I’m a map-maker right now. I just need to figure out the layout.
They shove me into the heavy metal box of the service elevator.
The cables hum, and my stomach drops as we shoot upward at a sickening speed.
As the floors click by on the digital display, the muffled sounds of the gala bleed through the elevator shaft.
Clinking champagne flutes, a live string quartet, the fake, high-pitched laughter of the ultra-rich.
It’s a gilded, sickening contrast to the purple bruises rapidly forming on my arms. The guard on my left catches my reflection in the polished steel doors and lets out a low, predatory whistle.
I close my eyes, pressing my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to stop my teeth from chattering.
"They're starting the auctions early tonight."
"Wonder which monster bought this one."
"You’re going to a special room, honey. VIP."
They think I'm a toy. They have absolutely no idea I'm a fucking bomb just waiting for a match.
The elevator doors hiss open, spitting us out into a corridor that feels like a totally different universe.
Deep crimson carpets, dim amber lighting, the cloying stench of expensive beeswax polish and heavy lilies.
The plush carpet swallows the sound of my bare feet as they drag me to a heavy, soundproofed door marked with a polished chrome '8'. I lock my eyes onto a single stray thread hanging off the guard’s cuff, obsessively tracking it so I don't have to look at the door.
He swipes a gold-tethered keycard. The lock emits a clinical, final thunk.
It sounds exactly like a tomb sealing shut.
"Room eight. Guest is already inside."
"Don't keep him waiting."
"Try to survive the first hour, at least."
They don't even lead me inside. The guard just shoves his hand into the center of my back and violently launches me forward. I stumble, my hands flying out blindly to catch myself as I’m thrown into a room of absolute, suffocating darkness.
The heavy door slams shut behind me, the rush of air hitting the back of my calves. I spin around, slamming my hands against the wood.
"Go on, birdy."
"Wait, the door—!"
My voice dies in my throat. There is zero light coming from under the crack. No windows letting in streetlamps. Nothing. It is a complete sensory vacuum. I press my fingernails into the wall, feeling the scratch of silk-covered wallpaper.
"Hello? Is someone there?"
The silence is so heavy it actually feels physical, pressing down on my shoulders.
I stand perfectly still, terrified that shifting my weight will give away my exact coordinates.
I ball my hands into fists at my sides, squeezing so tightly my unclipped nails slice into my palms, drawing warm blood.
A high-end clock ticks somewhere to my left.
The thick air smells like wood smoke and an extremely expensive, peaty scotch.
"I know you're in here."
"Say something."
Nothing. Total silence. Whoever bought me is just sitting out there in the pitch black, watching me spiral. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Then I hear it. The slow, deliberate rustle of wool sliding against leather.
The shifting of massive weight. The scent hits me like a physical blow—sharp, masculine cedarwood mixed with rain, layered aggressively over the bite of the whiskey.
It’s a predator’s scent, and he’s close.
Way closer than I thought. I hold my breath until my lungs actively ache, straining to hear his heartbeat over the deafening rush of my own blood. Ice clinks in a glass.
"Show yourself."
"What do you want?"
"I'm not afraid of you."
A massive silhouette finally detaches itself from the darkness near the far wall.
Even without light, he is a terrifying physical presence.
A void moving within the void. He’s built like a brick shit-house, shoulders broad enough to block out whatever faint sliver of hope I was clutching.
He doesn't say a fucking word. He just glides across the room, the cold draft of his movement washing over my bare legs.
I take one tiny, instinctual step backward, my heel catching on the edge of a thick rug.
"Don't come any closer."
"I'm warning you..."
"Who are you?"
A hand shoots out of the dark before I can even blink.
A huge, brutally warm palm clamps around my upper arm.
His grip isn't just a hold; it’s a manacle.
His thick fingers completely encircle my bicep, bone to bone.
With a terrifying, effortless surge of strength, he yanks me toward him, pulling me entirely off my feet.
"Let go!"
"Stop it!"
He lets out a low, guttural grunt of effort, but his grip doesn't budge a millimeter. It’s like trying to break out of an industrial vise.
I try to twist my shoulder out of the socket to escape, but he just uses the momentum against me.
With a sweeping, violent motion, he spins me around.
My back slams into his chest—a literal wall of solid, unyielding muscle beneath expensive, custom-tailored suit fabric.
He shoves me forward, his massive hand flattening against the base of my spine, driving me across the dark room like I weigh absolutely nothing.
My bare toes scuff desperately across the carpet.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Please..."
"Don't do this."
I throw my hands out instinctively to brace for impact.
I slam into a cold, smooth surface. Glass.
A massive floor-to-ceiling window. The freezing temperature of the pane is a massive shock to my heated skin.
Beyond the glass, miles below us, the city lights spread out like a cold field of dead stars, doing nothing to illuminate the pitch-black room we’re in.
I gasp, my breath fogging the glass in a frantic little circle right in front of my face.
"It's cold."
"Get off me."
"Look at me, you coward."
He doesn't let go. He steps entirely into my space, pressing his entire towering weight into my back, completely sandwiching me against the freezing glass.
His hand drops to my hip, his fingers digging sadistically into my hipbone, locking me in place.
His other hand moves to the back of my neck.
He tangles his thick fingers into my hacked-off hair and violently yanks my head backward, exposing my bare throat to the dark room.
The scratch of his silk tie drags against my bare shoulder.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste copper, refusing to let a whimper escape my throat.
"You’re hurting me."
"Is this what you paid for?"
"Do it then. Get it over with."
He leans in. His face hovers mere inches from my ear, the heat of his breath radiating against my damp skin in a steady, rhythmic puff.
He smells heavily of aged bourbon. He isn’t frantic.
He isn’t rushing. He’s just exhaling a long, slow breath over my neck that makes every single fine hair on my body stand up in sheer, panicked rebellion.
I squeeze my eyes shut, mentally building a brick wall in my head.
"What are you waiting for?"
He takes a deep, rumbling inhale right against my collarbone.
"Say something, damn you."
A sharp, violent tear echoes like a gunshot in the silent room.
I feel the thin strap of my slip instantly give way, the cheap fabric completely destroyed under his fingers.
A draft of freezing air hits my bare shoulder and chest as the ruined garment slumps downward.
He didn't even try to pull it down; he just ripped it apart because he could.
The rough slide of his calloused hand sweeps over my exposed shoulder blade.
I don't try to cover myself up. I keep my hands splayed completely flat against the cold window.
"That was all I had."
"Are you happy now?"
I stop fighting. I stop squirming. I go completely, unnervingly rigid.
I lock my knees, stiffen my spine until it cracks, and clench my jaw until my molars grind together.
I turn myself into a statue of ice against the glass.
I refuse to flinch. I refuse to tremble.
I refuse to give this bastard a single tear or a broken sob.
I zero my vision in on a tiny, microscopic scratch in the thick glass right in front of my nose, making it the entire center of my universe.
"I'm not here."
"You get nothing."
"I am stone. I am stone. I am stone."
I stare into the dark glass, catching the faintest, ghostly reflection of my own face hovering over the city lights.
My hazel eyes are wide, but they are bone-dry.
They are hard, glittering mirrors of pure hatred.
Behind me, I feel the massive man shift his weight, his grip tightening on my hip for a split second as if he’s physically shocked by the total lack of struggle.
He lets out this low, vibrating sound—a dark huff of annoyance, or maybe he’s just deadass confused that I haven't collapsed into a weeping puddle. He leans his head down, the dark blur of his jaw brushing the curve of my ear.
"Is that all you've got?"
"You're wasting your time."
His hot breath hitches against my skin, sending a violent shiver down my spine that I immediately lock down. I just stare at my own pale reflection in the glass. It’s a nice view of the city, all things considered.