In front of me is a beautiful woman, her face caked in make-up and skin doused in citrus perfume. A tight dress clings to her curves, and a pair of strappy heels give her Amazonian height.
Her outfit is not fit for this weather, but she looks as if she could walk through a blizzard barefoot and not bat an eye. She only appears to be in her mid-thirties, and while she’s beautiful, she looks tired—weathered. Walking alongside the devil will do that to you.
This must be Francesca.
And right now, she’s glaring at me, shooting daggers from her golden-brown
eyes.
Shit. Here we go.
Rio shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t respond to her outraged question. And that small action tells me a lot. If you don’t have a valid reason for your mistake, keep your mouth shut. Maybe even if you do, still keep it shut.
Her eyes narrow and trail down my body as she walks towards me, checking
me out. Determining how much money I could make her, most likely.
I’m grateful Rio found some clothes from another girl’s room, and that I’m not wearing the hospital gown anymore. I imagine her reaction would be far worse than it is now.
She stands before me, her strong perfume tickling my nose. I keep silent, watching her pinch the dirty, white shirt and lift it up. Her stare sharpens as she spots the ugly bruises coloring my torso. They’re everywhere, and I have a sickening feeling she’s going to make it her mission to find every single one.
She then circles me, a sharp gasp piercing the still air when she spots the two
large gashes on my back.
“What did you do to her?” she snarls.
Rio keeps his eyes down on his black boots, specks of dried blood still on them.
“Car accident,” he answers shortly.
“Stupid. This is going to take weeks to heal. When can the stitches come out?”
He finally looks up, his dark brown eyes swirling with hate yet an apologetic
expression on his face. It’s manufactured just for Francesca. He’s not fucking sorry at all.
“Dr. Garrison said four to six weeks.”
She hisses and lets the shirt drop, circling back around to face me.
“Is she on birth control?”
My brows furrow and I frown, wondering why she’s asking him and how the
hell Rio would even know that.
“Garrison said she has the IUD.”
Tears begin to build, and it takes effort to keep them at bay. It makes me want
to vomit that I was violated like that. I had no idea he checked, which means he
did it while I was unconscious.
She hums, pleased by that, and finally address me directly. “Do you know who I am?”
It takes a few seconds to rein my emotions in, but I manage to swallow them
down enough to answer her.
“Francesca,” I say confidently, inserting as much volume in my voice as
possible. She doesn’t present herself as the type of person who’d appreciate mumbling.
That’s the good thing about being a writer, I suppose. I’ve built and crafted so
many imaginary personalities that it doesn’t take much to figure out the ones in
real life.
Francesca, here, has no patience and doesn’t tolerate insolence, laziness, or weakness. She exudes strength, and that’s what she expects in return. Not to be confused with defiance, of course.
She pops a manicured eyebrow up her forehead. “Yes,” she says. “That’s my
name. But that’s not what I asked you.”
Frowning, my brows knit, unsure how to respond. Before I can figure it out,
her long acrylic nails pinch my cheeks. I inhale sharply, the talons digging into
my skin as she pulls my face into hers, a calm but menacing expression on her
face.
“I am your madam. You will not speak, act or even think without my permission first, you understand me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, though the sound comes out garbled between my pinched
lips. She pushes my face away harshly, causing me to lose my footing and land
on my ass. A puff of air escapes me from the impact, followed by a whimper, and I screw my eyes shut as pain rackets up my spine.
These assholes don’t want the product bruised and bloody yet can’t keep their
goddamn hands off me. Makes a whole lot of fucking sense.
I don’t need to be an expert in the skin trade to know that no one wants to eat
a bruised apple. They want nice, shiny apples to sink their teeth into and rip apart themselves, piece by piece.
Francesca sniffs, peering down at me with disdain. Blowing out a slow
breath, I meet her stare, working hard to keep even a hint of anger out of my eyes.
“Obedience is the number one thing I ask of you. I personally don’t like to administer drugs to keep the girls compliant. I like my girls lucid and in control as it makes for a better experience for our buyers. No one wants a drug-addicted
whore who can barely keep her eyes straight and fist a cock properly. That means if you disobey me or fail to do as I instruct, you will be punished.
Understood?”
I drop my eyes before she can see the emotion spit from them like grease in a
hot skillet. Swallowing down the rock in my throat, I choke out, “Yes, ma’am.”
She makes a sound of aversion. “Never call me that. Reminds me of my
mother,” she snaps, muttering the last part.
“How would you like me to address you?” I ask, finding the courage to look
up and meet her eyes once more.
I know what I’d like to fucking call the evil bitch.
Rio chortles from the doorway but sobers when Francesca shoots a pointed
look over her shoulder.
She trains her narrowed gaze on me, seeming to contemplate something.
“Just call me Francesca,” she responds. “Rio here is going to implant a
tracking device and tattoo your Slave ID. Everyone gets one, and they will only
be covered once you have your master.”
My heart shrivels and dies the moment she mentions a tracking device. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but it sends a fresh dose of panic into my bloodstream, twisting my gut painfully. Tears begin to burn the backs of my eyes, the hopelessness deepening.
“Yes, Francesca,” I force out, my back hunching from the emotions circulating throughout my body, so potent that they nearly disintegrate my spine and send me crumbling to the floor at her feet.
As temporary as it is, she appears pleased and heads for the door, pausing to