And in the present was Madame Lorraine, who looked askance at the idea that her trainers would do such a thing as uncouth as have sex with a slave destined for the auction block. “Of course not,” she chided in that prep-school accent that seemed so odd every time I heard her speak. “You do not surrender your right of consent in this auction. We will test your obedience and skill. You will be penetrated, but it will be by dildos, not dicks.”
Dildos not dicks should have been the name of a band, I thought wildly. I was trying not to remember the many days when I’d been given as a prize to all of my Master’s bodyguards. I was trying not to remember the horrific pain of that first day when all five of them had brutalized my body.
But my photographic memory was unrelenting. The images flashed in my head, one by one, in a movie-reel of unending terror. Ivan striking my ass with his doubled-up belt until it was black and blue when I’d gagged around his cock and my teeth had grazed him. Sam, who had slapped my face so hard that my mouth had been filled with blood. Cocks painfully thrust into my raw sore *. Into my dry unprepared ass.
“When would you like to do the evaluation?” While my voice was the perfect mix of nervousness and anticipation, my hands were clenched into fists as I fought back the memories of the past. Not now, Ellie, I told myself angrily. Not when you are so close to revenge.
Madame Lorraine eyed me with concern. “Are you alright, my dear? You seem flushed.”
“I’m fine.” I’d become so skilled at lying. “I’m sorry, Madame Lorraine. It’s hard for me not to think about Alicia.” It took an effort, but I let the tears form in my eyes once again, pushing back the memory of Mrs. Olusola whispering to me the first night. This will be easier if you forget how to cry, girl.
“In that case,” she said gently, “how about right now? After all, the life of your sister depends on how you do.”
***
Lucien had changed everything six years ago.
I am a frightened twenty year old huddled in a small house in the outskirts of Lagos, waiting to be raped by the three men who have just purchased me. Though my desire for revenge runs hot in my blood, the reality is that my body is frail. I can’t fight. I can be held down with pathetic ease. I can’t defend myself from attack from someone who weighs a hundred pounds, let alone these big, burly, well-armed men.
I hate myself at this point. I hate how weak I am.
Then the shooting begins.
When I stop screaming, a man walks into the room, his eyes wary and his grip tight on his gun. He is wearing a black t-shirt and black pants. He looks at me briefly before dismissing me as a threat and leaving the room. I can hear him search the house. When he is done, he comes back to where I’m still sitting, curled up into a tight, fearful ball. “You are Dylan’s latest girl, are you not?”
I nod.
He shrugs, more or less indifferent to my plight. “Where is Dylan?”
“Abeokuta,” I reply. “In his compound, I’d imagine.”
The man swears a string of colourful curses. Though there is still a tense knot of fear in me, I watch him curiously.
“Damn it,” he says finally. He runs his hands through his hair. “I’d hoped he would be here with you.” He exhales and is silent for many minutes. When he finally breaks the silence, his words are stoic though his eyes remain bleak. “Ah well,” he says. “There’s always next time, right?”
He turns to leave. I seize my courage into my hands, and call out. “Wait.” He gives me a look of barely concealed impatience. “You want to kill Dylan, don’t you? I do too. Take me with you.”
His eyes rake my body and I can imagine what he sees. A beautiful woman no doubt, but otherwise completely useless. My muscles are weak. I huddle in terror when the shooting starts. “You have nothing to offer,” he dismisses me. “No. You will not be useful.”
“I’ve been Dylan McAllister’s sex slave for two years,” I snap back. The dismissal stings. It only reinforces what I already know. I’m deadweight. But I’m not going to back down. I will have my revenge. “I know things about him that will help you in your quest.”
“Like what?” he scoffs.
I recite things. The blessing of a photographic memory. Precise descriptions of each of Dylan’s five bodyguards. Details about the Nigerian mercenaries that Gregor Petrovich has hired to supplement the security in the compound. I paint vivid word portraits of the housekeeping staff. I talk about security rosters. At what hour of the day the guards change. I remember everything and I tell it all to this stranger dressed in black.
When I’m done, there’s a moment of silence. Then the man speaks again. “It appears that I have underestimated you,” he says. “What do you want?”
“I want to kill Dylan McAllister.”
“Get in line,” he quips, before he turns serious. “Killing is hard and soul-destroying work. Do you have what it takes?”
I remember everything. Every unwelcome touch. Every biting kiss of the whip. Every painful penetration. Every single time I’ve been tossed to Dylan’s bodyguards as punishment.
“Yes.” My voice is flat. I do have what it takes.
***