4. Mel

My handcuffs spring free, and the man who kidnapped me wrenches me up off the van floor, practically dislocating my elbows as he manhandles me into a stand. The behemoth's strong hands grip my wrists, despite my effort to curl into a ball, and his fingers tighten forcefully around my arms.

"Let me go!" I scream, trying in vain to jerk free of his grasp.

Blood still oozes from the cut on his temple where I struck him with my bedroom lamp. I should have learned my lesson from that first attempt to escape—fighting only seems to encourage him.

His sneer transforms into a snarl as he backhands me so hard that stars burst across my vision. My head snaps sideways as I reel across the pavement, losing my equilibrium completely. Then he twists my wrist violently, forcing my arm into an unnatural angle behind my back.

"Okay, okay, I'm going!" I scream, panicked that he might break it.

That's what they did to one of the girls who tried to fight back the first time we were taken.

We've been driving for nearly an hour, if I took my best guess, and we're far outside the New York city limits by now. From the looks of it, we're in the middle of nowhere, parked on the side of the highway. And the pitch-black night shrouds us in haunting mystery.

"Where are you taking me?" I demand, trying to pump the brakes as I spot the cab of a massive semi pulling onto the shoulder in front of us.

"Move, rabynya," he growls, seeming to have lost patience with me.

He shoves me forward with such force that I lose my balance again, my head leading the way as I freefall toward the asphalt. I hit the ground with a painful thud, fire lancing up my wrists and through my knees.

Next to me, Tif is bent forward, hands bound, kneeling with her chest pressed firmly to her thighs. She's bleeding profusely from a cut below her eye, and the crimson liquid drips freely onto the black asphalt. Her head turns slowly toward me, and I can see her stunned, blank expression that makes me fear she has a concussion.

"Melody," Annie whimpers, drawing my gaze.

She, too, is bound and kneeling as tears stream freely from her wide, hopeless eyes. Her face says it all. It doesn't matter how far or how fast we run. There is no escaping fate.

It's found us, and it would appear that our number is up.

Strong hands wrench my wrists out from under me, forcing me into the same kneeling position as they tie my arms mercilessly behind me with chafing rope. Then, the terrifying sound of a cargo truck's back door rolling open makes my head turn.

"No. No, no, no, no, no!" I scream, panic rising in my throat.

It's the same kind of truck the bastards put me in before. Cold, hard benches line either side of the pitch-black tunnel on wheels, and agonizing fear grips me as I face the ugly truth. Annie's right. There is no escaping. Only running until our legs can no longer carry us and the villains catch back up.

The muscle-bound Russian who hauled me from our house lifts me onto my feet once again. And with impressive force, he steers me toward the back of the truck.

"You boys work quickly," the semi driver observes.

"It's best not to keep the boss waiting," my man states flatly.

And with shockingly little effort, he picks me up, tossing me into the back of the cargo truck like a sack of potatoes. Tif and Annie follow seconds later. Several new men step out of the shadows, hauling us further into the truck before giving the driver a silent solute.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you," the driver says dryly, shaking hands with my kidnapper.

That's the last thing I see before the truck's door rolls closed once more, trapping me inside my worst nightmare. It smells like the girls who already fill the back of the truck have been stuck in here for days. I'm sure they have. They've probably come from all across the country—just like Annie, Tif, and I did.

They're all shockingly quiet now—a reminder that they're probably so doped up on drugs that they don't even know what's happening to them.

But I know.

No one's pumped me full of heroin this time, and I intend to keep it that way. That's how they kept us all under control during transport last time, so I wonder if this means we're not far from our final destination.

"You cunts must be some magical kind of pussy for the trouble we've gone to just to get our hands on you," one of the men observes dryly from his seat in the dark.

I can't quite make out who said it. I suppose it doesn't really matter. But focusing on a small detail like that might just be the only thing that keeps me rooted in reality. Because I can feel my mind starting to unravel, my consciousness retreating deep into my brain to protect me from what comes next.

A clawed hand locks onto my jaw, yanking me forward, though I can't make out who the aggressor is in this complete darkness.

"I can't wait to see what Mikhail has in store for you sluts," the man sneers, his rank breath washing over me and telling me that he's far too close for comfort—within inches of my face.

"Fuck you," I hiss, soaking my words with every drop of vitriol I can muster.

The man shoves me away, and I hear him settle onto the bench against the truck wall. A moment later, the cargo vehicle starts to rock and sway. We're on the move.

I can hardly breathe through the panic strangling my throat. Still, I won't give these men the pleasure of hearing me cry. Not that I blame Annie, who cries openly beside me. But I refuse to let these men think they can destroy me. They'll have to kill me first.

Slumping back against the hard edge of the bench, I remain seated on the floor. It might not be comfortable, but it's not a complete waste. If I feel around long enough, I might find something that could help me cut through my bonds. Then, I can make a break for it as soon as the truck stops.

To my left, Annie continues to sniffle. Her plan seems to consist of simply buckling under the weight of our misfortune, and that enrages me. It's mean, I know. I shouldn't take my anger out on her. Of the girls who Gleb rescued along with me, she's been the closest thing to what I could call a friend. But I hate that she's just giving up. Not now, after all that we've survived.

To my right, Tif is entirely too silent for my liking. I hope she's only passed out and not dead already. No one should have to die tied up like an animal and awaiting a cruel fate. But I can't stop thinking about that blank look in her eyes, and I'm worried her head injury might be serious.

Not that I could do anything about it, even if it is.

So, instead, I focus on what I can use around me.

But try as I might, I can't find anything that will help me cut my bonds. The truck rocks back and forth, bouncing with every pothole and rough patch of road. Each bump makes my stomach do ugly flips, threatening to force my lunch back up my throat.

It takes hours to reach our destination, and though I want to stay alert, to try and decipher where we might be headed, by the time we finally come to a stop, I have no clue where we are. We could be north, south, or west of the City, and I wouldn't have the slightest idea which one.

All I know is that it doesn't take hours to get to the coast from our Harlem apartment. So we're not east—unless I missed the part where we boarded a ferry.

Light floods the back of the truck as two men roll the door open once more. Our captors climb out first, shielding their eyes from the early morning sun. Then it's our turn. Hooking their arms through our bound elbows, the men cart us off the transport truck.

My stomach plummets when the door closes, but they've only unloaded ten of us. At least Annie and Tif are both still alive and part of the select group. I don't like the thought of being split up. But I really don't like that the rest of the girls have an even longer journey to survive.

I don't have long to think about it, though, as I'm jerked forward and forced to march into the treeline off the gravel path we drove in on. I'm greeted a short while later by a small wood cottage sitting in a wildly overgrown clearing.

It could almost be romantic, fairy-tale-esque with its rough-hewn wood, the round river rock that shapes the chimney, and the natural oak wraparound porch. It's like a dream house from my imagination—except for the hauntingly vacant-eyed windows that have bars locking them shut.

"Welcome to your new home, ladies," a man drawls as he exits through the front door of the cottage. Mockingly opening his arms, he welcomes us like a gracious host. "At least until you're auctioned off. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Mikhail couldn't break away from his responsibilities to greet you. So I'm here instead, but I assure you we're going to have a lot of fun together." His gaze rakes appreciatively down my body, lingering on my breasts. "A lot of fun," he repeats, his tone heating with an anticipation that makes my stomach curdle.

The man's graying hair and stony eyes give him a scowling Clint Eastwood vibe—only far creepier and much less handsome. A shiver of repulsion ripples through me at the way he undresses me with a look. I can feel his slimy hands all over me before he's even touched me, and I pray that I die before that actually happens.

"In case you ladies didn't know," he continues conversationally, "Mr. Sidorov intends to send you to some of our best and most… particular clients. The real nasty ones who get off on fucking pretty girls' minds as much as every one of their virgin orifices."

The man approaches, his eyes molten as he strokes a long finger down the side of my face. I jerk away as my skin crawls from the clammy contact. And though tears prick my eyes, I refuse to let him see the horror he instills in me. So I glare at him, willing him to spontaneously burst into flame.

His lips curl into a wicked grin. "I can't wait to see how much they'll pay to break your spirit, pretty little thing," he murmurs, the sound of his voice like an unwanted caress.