Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

K endra

The minutes dragged on, stretching into what felt like hours. The cold metal table beneath me bit into my skin as I lay there, bare and exposed, my wrists and ankles still bound by the leather straps.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to lose myself in the cracks, in the peeling paint, anything to keep my mind from spiraling back to what had just happened. But I couldn’t forget. I could still feel his hands on me, the clinical detachment in his touch, the way he’d peeled me open like I was nothing more than a thing to be studied, cataloged, and marked for some future purpose.

The door creaked open, and I flinched, my heart jumping into my throat. The two men stepped back inside, and I felt a wave of heat flush across my skin, the embarrassment flooding through me as their eyes landed on my body.

They stared without shame, without even the courtesy to pretend otherwise, and I could feel my cheeks burning, my breath catching in my chest. I tried to pull my legs together, to hide what little I could, but the restraints held me wide open, exposed, and I hated them for it—hated them for looking, loathed them for seeing me like this.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block them out. It was impossible. The sound of their boots against the tile, the scent of sweat and oil that clung to them, it all filled the room, crowding out everything else. The one with the scar reached down, unbuckling the straps that held my wrists, then my ankles, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my limbs shaking as they were finally released.

“Come on,” he muttered, yanking me off the table. My legs buckled, and I stumbled. I tried to push myself up, but my muscles wouldn’t respond, and I could feel the hot sting of tears pricking at my eyes. The second man grabbed my arm, jerking me to my feet, and I bit down hard on my lip, swallowing the cry that threatened to spill out.

“Walk,” he ordered, and I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to cover what I could as they led me out into the hallway.

The corridor was busier now, filled with other girls being herded along by attendants and guards. Some were like me, red-faced and trembling, trying desperately to hide themselves, while others moved with a kind of numbness, their eyes glazed over, their movements mechanical. I could see the marks on their arms, the red welts on their asses like they had been beaten, and my stomach twisted, a sick, churning feeling that I couldn’t shake.

As we moved down the hallway, I caught sight of one girl being dragged past us, her backside covered in angry red splotches, the handprint on the back of her thigh stark and brutal. There was something peeking out from between her bottom cheeks too, a silver bulbous thing that was most definitely shoved into her asshole. My own backside clenched, not wanting to imagine what something like that felt like.

It seemed like it would probably hurt.

Her eyes met mine for just a moment, and I saw the fury there, the shame, the way she was biting back her sobs, and I had to look away, had to tear my gaze from hers before I broke right there in the middle of the hallway.

The scarred man noticed, his mouth curling into a half-smile. “That’s what happens when you don’t cooperate,” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath hot against my ear. “You don’t want to end up like her, do you?”

I shook my head quickly, my throat tightening, and he chuckled, the sound low and rumbling.

“Good girl,” he said, giving my arm a little shake, and I hated how those words made my skin crawl, how they settled into my bones like ice.

We kept moving, past more girls, more guards, all of them marching forward with that same vacant, hollow look, and I felt something inside me harden, something that refused to die, even as they tried to strip it away.

I wouldn’t let them take that from me. Not yet.

We reached another door, this one larger, with reinforced steel and a keypad beside it, and the second man punched in a code, the lock buzzing as it slid open. He shoved me through, and I stumbled into a small room, my heart pounding against my ribs. He slammed the door behind me, and I was left alone once again.

The walls weren’t made of the same cold, hard steel I’d seen in the other rooms. They were padded, thick and soft, covered in a worn, grayish fabric that gave way beneath my touch. The floor was the same, yielding slightly as I shifted, my bare feet pressing into the padding. Even the ceiling was lined with that same material, dull and featureless, like it was designed to muffle sound, to swallow any scream or cry before it could escape.

Immediately, a bad feeling simmered in the pit of my stomach, and it wouldn’t go away.

I sat down on a bench against the wall, drawing my knees closer to my chest, and tried to ignore the ache in my bones, the way my skin still felt raw from their rough hands. I focused on the door instead, that single metal slab set into the wall. There was a small slat at the bottom, just big enough for a tray to be slipped through, and I watched it like it might suddenly spring open, like it might spit out something that would finally make sense of all this.

As if on cue, the slat opened with a soft metallic scrape, and a tray slid through, the smell hitting me all at once—warm, rich, savory. My stomach twisted, a loud growl escaping before I could stop it, and I hated myself for it.

I stared down at the tray, at the plate of food they’d given me, and felt my mouth water despite everything. There was a piece of roasted chicken, the skin golden and crispy, with juices pooling around it, a pile of mashed potatoes that looked so creamy they might melt in my mouth, and a slice of bread, with butter already melting into the surface. A small cup of something dark and sweet sat in the corner—probably juice, or maybe even wine— and I could see steam rising from it, curling up into the air like smoke.

I reached for it, my hand trembling, then froze, pulling back. No. They couldn’t just expect me to sit here and eat, like some kind of animal waiting to be fattened up. I thought about kicking the tray away, of letting the food rot, of proving to them that I was stronger than this.

But then I thought about the two men from before, about the way they’d grabbed me, the strength in their hands, and I knew if I didn’t eat, they’d make me. They’d force every bite down my throat until I choked on it, until I had no choice but to swallow. This wasn’t a game I could win by starving myself.

So I picked up the fork and knife with shaky hands, my heart still racing, and cut off a piece of the chicken. The meat practically fell apart under the blade, tender and juicy, and when I brought it to my mouth, the flavor exploded across my tongue. I’d forgotten what food could taste like, what it could feel like to eat something warm, something seasoned. It was so good, so unbelievably good, that I nearly cried, my eyes stinging as I took another bite. And then another.

The potatoes were creamy, buttery, with just a hint of garlic that made my taste buds come alive, and the bread was soft and warm, perfectly chewy, the butter salty and rich as it melted on my tongue. I ate like I was starving, every bite more precious than the last, my hands shaking as I shoveled it into my mouth, desperate to fill the empty pit that had been gnawing at me for as long as I could remember.

I didn’t want to enjoy it. I didn’t want to give them that victory. But as I scraped the last of the potatoes from the plate, licking the fork clean, I couldn’t deny it—this was the best meal I’d ever had in my life. I hated them for giving it to me. Hated how much I wanted more.

When I finished, I sat back against the padded wall, staring at the empty plate, the tiny drops of sauce that clung to the edges, and I felt a tear slip down my cheek, hot and bitter.

They wanted me to feel grateful. They wanted me to think this was a gift.

But it wasn’t. It was a reminder that they owned me now. And no matter how good the food tasted, it didn’t change that one simple, undeniable fact.

I was theirs. I belonged to the wolves now.