Chapter 7

SEVEN

AMETHYST

Dolly’s body is identical to mine, except for the scars. The deep ones Mom told me came from the car crash also run along her torso, but they’re bisected by multiple smaller slashes.

They’re the kind of marks I’d expect on a hardened warrior, not a woman of twenty-four, and I can’t tell if they’re self-inflicted or if someone has used her for target practice.

The topography of her skin is the least of my problems. After Locke stuck another needle into my neck, Dolly sent Fen away, leaving me slumped on the green screen floor.

Locke didn’t even administer a sedative. A sedative would have rendered me unconscious or at least dulled the terror and humiliation of being stripped naked by my own doppelg?nger.

Every touch made my skin crawl and my stomach churn to the point that I thought I’d choke on bile. She laid me bare for those men’s eyes, exposed me to their lewd comments. I wanted to withdraw into the deepest recesses of my mind, blank out the horror of being on display, but the paralyzing drug wouldn’t even allow me the dignity of closing my eyes.

What the hell do these people plan for me before I die? It’s obvious I’m about to star in one of their snuff movies, but will it be as bad as Lizzie’s ordeal? I think I would rather die now.

“Pull her up. I want her standing.” Delta’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

Dolly steps back, and the black-haired man named Seth draws forward. He’s the second tallest of the younger men after Fen, with olive skin a shade deeper than Camila’s. His eyes are so dark and penetrating that it’s impossible to distinguish the pupil from their irises.

As he hauls me to my feet, the fourth man attaches handcuffs to each wrist. He has a mop of messy brown hair and cinnamon-colored eyes set within features sharper than a hawk. I think his name is Barrett.

With Locke’s help, they attach cuffs to my wrists and clip them to steel cables, suspending me off the metal scaffolding running parallel to the ceiling. Throughout this, Delta and Dolly stare at me like I’m a prized lamb about to be skinned and slaughtered for their entertainment.

Once I’m standing in position with my arms stretched above my head, Locke injects me with something else to restore control of my muscles. My throat burns with fury, frustration, and fright. They didn’t even allow me the dignity of fighting back.

“Dolly, raise your arms,” Delta says.

She mirrors my pose, even mimicking my frantic breaths. I stare straight ahead, my jaw clenching, my heart pounding hard enough to rattle my bones.

Delta finally approaches, his large body looming over me like a specter of my painful demise. I inhale the mingled scents of sandalwood, peppermint, and sage, which scratch at a part of my brain that begs to stay untouched.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out something that resembles a craft knife with a tapered blade. With his free hand, he grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his cold, blue eyes.

My throat dries, and my body goes rigid. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stay locked in his malevolent gaze.

“Shall we begin?” he asks.

“No,” I try to say, but the word is obscured by the gag.

He glances at Dolly, who turns her body to the left, exposing a long cut running from a few inches below her armpit to her hip.

“Stay still, Amy,” Delta says, his fingers pressing into my flesh. “I want to avoid excess bloodshed.”

Chills race across my skin and seep into my bones, but it’s not enough to numb the sting of the craft knife piercing my flesh. I jerk away, every nerve ending screaming as the blade glides through my tissue like he’s cutting through butter.

Warm blood trickles down my side, replacing the scent of Delta’s cologne with copper. I want to grit my teeth, but the ring gag forces my jaw open. Instead, I breathe hard and fast, trying to process the pain.

“Good girl,” Delta says, his deep voice curling around my senses like a serpent.

“Get the one on the underside of her tit,” Barrett says, his words quickening with excitement.

“This one?” Dolly chuckles.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her raising her left breast, drawing Locke to her side. He wraps an arm around her waist and nuzzles her neck, making her groan.

Delta glances over at them, the fingers holding my waist tightening. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with my survival, I might wonder about the dynamics of Delta’s relationship with Dolly. Despite being the leader, he allows other men to touch his wife. The micro expressions he tries to hide each time she cozies up with Locke tell me he finds the sight unsettling.

He grabs my breast, forcing a gasp from my lungs.

“Look at me, Amy,” Delta growls.

I shut my eyes.

He leans in close, his breath hot against my cheek. “You’d be wise to obey the man in control of the depth of your cuts.”

My eyes snap open, and I stare into his irises. They’re nothing like Xero’s. Xero’s were pale blue with white striations, yet Delta’s have faint starbursts of orange that remind me of flames.

“I know he survived the execution,” he says, his voice low. “But did he survive your pyromania?”

Pain lances through my heart, burning brighter than the sensation of the craft knife slicing through my breast. I swallow back a sob, replacing sorrow with the metal taste of fear.

All this time Xero searched for his father, when the man was several steps ahead. How else would he know about the fire or that I would leave Parisii Drive in search of Mom?

“Do the cross on her back,” Dolly says, making Delta draw away.

He turns me around, his touch gentle once again. Barrett and Seth stand at my sides, seeming more interested in watching me bleed than observing Locke and Dolly’s exchange.

Delta’s large hands land on my back, his fingers tracing the lines of an invisible X before positioning the blade on my skin.

I shiver as he makes the first precise cut, my body tensing under the shock of pain.

“Relax, Amy,” Delta murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “Your sister finds this pleasurable.”

Anguish wraps around my chest like a constrictor, making each breath a battle against unseen restraints. My throat burns with the urge to scream, yet I can’t form a word through the gag. I have no sister. Even if I did, she wouldn’t be as malicious or as twisted as Dolly.

Barrett chuckles. “She’s crying.”

“Let me see,” replies Seth.

I’ve never felt so powerless. Never felt so overwhelmed with confusion. Prickly heat builds behind my eyes, which threaten to well up with tears. My lungs work like bellows, trying to hold back the well of emotions, but I refuse to let them see me cry. I won’t give these sick bastards the satisfaction of seeing me break.

The knife makes another slice across my back, and my mind goes numb. It’s like a switch has been flipped, and now I’m watching everything unfold from a distance. Maybe it’s finally registered that I’m in a dream. Maybe something inside me has cracked. But whatever it is, I’m no longer fully present in my own body.

My limbs feel heavy and distant, as if they belong to someone else. The pain should be overwhelming, but it’s muted, like it’s happening to an avatar. My surroundings fade into a blur, the voices and scents and unwelcome touches blending into a jumble of muted sensations.

Strangely, this new state of being is peaceful. It’s like I’m floating above it all, observing the chaos below with a sense of detached curiosity. Right now, the world feels distant. For the first time since I stopped taking my meds, I feel a glimmer of peace.

As the cuts continue, I can even appreciate Delta’s determination to match every major line on Dolly’s skin. He works with the precision of an artist, making me wonder if he was responsible for Dolly’s tapestry of scars.

It’s surreal to become a human canvas. Even more surreal to not use any of Xero’s methods to escape.

Dr. Saint would call this process dissociation. By the time I return to my senses, I’m lying alone on the backdrop and all the lights are off. I wait for the pain to register, but my body remains numb.

A huge man dressed in the white pants and matching shirt of an orderly kneels at my side and stares down at me through the dark. I can’t see his face because it’s obscured by a white mask.

As he lifts me off the floor, I suck in a sharp breath, expecting a flood of pain. Instead, there’s an odd pressure against my skin, like I’m wrapped in compression bandages.

The man carries me through a dim, cold hallway. The echoes of clomping steps fill the air with black shockwaves, making me realize I’m still drugged.

Stopping at a metal door, he pushes it open to reveal a white room illuminated by spotlights. The floor and four walls are padded, save for the patch where a TV screen hangs close to the ceiling.

As the man drops me to the cushioned floor, the TV screen flickers to life.

It’s the tail end of that video of Xero inviting men to defile my body in the graveyard. I’m lying unconscious and naked, covered in urine and semen, and surrounded by men.

“Cut,” says a voice off camera.

On screen, I open my eyes and hold up my hand in a silent gesture for someone to help me up.

The camera pans up as one of the men pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around my shoulders. As we part, he stares into the camera and smirks.

It’s Locke, which must mean the woman is Dolly.

I stop breathing for the seconds it takes me to realize the truth about the video. It wasn’t me being gang-raped. It was my doppelg?nger.

And she was performing for the camera.

My heart lurches.

What the hell have I done?

I killed Xero by mistake.

The video plays over and over until realization sinks in, becoming as tangible as my mounting grief. I don’t know how long I remain watching Dolly impersonate me with her men, but guilt mounts until it becomes a physical entity haunting the edge of my vision.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice says from the corner of the room. “Look who’s realized she stabbed the wrong guy in the back.”

I turn my head toward the voice. It’s Xero, and he looks pissed.