I’m standing at the full-length mirror, attempting to French braid my hair. Rio
rudely awoke me this morning by storming in, throwing a soft pair of joggers and a t-shirt at me, and demanding I get ready before slamming the door behind him on his way out. For what, I’m afraid to ask.
My seven days of purgatory are over, and just the thought of being awake makes me nauseous.
I’ve been waiting around for further directions, so to give myself something
to do, I’m trying to fix my hair away from my face.
“Uh, hi,” I say, trying to regain my bearings.
I’m instantly on edge, tense beneath her probing gaze. There’s something
entirely unnerving about her presence.
She straightens and walks farther into the room, standing several inches
above me.
“Do you want my help?”
My instinct is to say no. I very much want to kick her out so that I can breathe
again. But it would be wise to make friends with the creepy girl rather than enemies.
So, I nod my head, keeping a close eye on her as she approaches me. She’s
wearing a long white gown that is nearly see-through—the curves of her body and her dark nipples apparent. I keep my eyes averted, trying to give her some semblance of respect that I’m sure she’s missing from the men in this house.
Hesitantly, I turn my back to her and watch her closely through the mirror.
She smiles wider, displaying crooked teeth as she reaches for my hair. She
presses her entire front into my back, and a sick feeling curdles in my stomach when I feel her nipples brushing against me.
Furrowing my brows, I step away, feeling all kinds of weird. She snickers but
doesn’t come any closer.
Instead of gathering my hair together, she pets me. Brushing her fingertips against my cinnamon strands, almost seeming to relish in the feel.
My discomfort worsens, even when she finally gathers all my hair together.
She’s gentle with me, though, her eyes glued to her task.
“What’s your name?” she asks, running her hand through my hair to clear out
the knots.
“Addie,” I say. “Yours?”
“How did you get your hair so soft?” she asks in place of an answer. I thin my
eyes, not liking her avoidance.
“I don’t really do much with it. No heat and no dye.”
She hums, and I arch a brow. “Your name,” I insist. She pauses and holds out
a pale hand, and it takes a second to realize she’s asking for the ponytail holder.
Blowing out a breath through my nose, I slip the band off my wrist and drop it in
her palm.
A few more moments of silence pass, and I don’t soften my gaze, boring
holes into her face through the mirror, still waiting for an answer.
“Sydney,” she responds finally, her voice pleasant as she begins to braid.
Part of me gets the feeling she made me wait on purpose, like a power move.
Nothing she’s doing is outwardly vindictive or cruel—in fact, she’s being
incredibly gentle as she twists my hair—but that feeling triggers my sixth sense
anyway.
Like when someone laughs at something you said, but you just know they’re
laughing at you, and not with you.
“Francesca wants us to meet her in the pretty room.”
I’ve no fucking idea what the pretty room is. So, when Sydney finishes with
my hair and motions for me to follow her, I do so without question.
She leads me down the hallway, a line of girls walking opposite us and
towards a room a few doors down from mine.
We file into what looks like a beauty room, Sydney’s nickname for it making
sense now. She’s not calling the room pretty, but rather where we go to get pretty.
A long clothing rack lines one wall, with an array of colorful lingerie hanging
from it. Three vanities are set up on the opposite side, covered in makeup and
brushes. There are a couple of full-length mirrors leaning against another wall and several shoe racks with an assortment of heels lined on each row.
Swallowing thickly, I follow the girls’ lead and stand with them in a straight
line facing the door. I assume we’re waiting for Francesca.
“What are—” I start.
“Shh.” A girl cuts off my question, the command short and harsh. Sydney
giggles from the other side of me, and I snap my mouth shut, glancing at the one
who either is just being a bitch, or has just saved me from getting hurt. Either way, I’ll take my chances and listen.
She has long, brown hair, the tips reaching her butt, and hazel eyes. Her face
is stony as she stares straight ahead, but I don’t study her long enough to decipher the emotion swirling in her irises.
She’s tense, that much I can tell. And I’m not sure if it’s for what will happen
when Francesca arrives, or because of something else.
Or maybe it’s because she’s been abducted and sold into human trafficking, and no matter what’s happening, it’s all fucking bad.
Moments later, heels echo loudly on the wood as Francesca makes her way up
the stairs and down the hallway toward us. I guess that’s one comfort in this house—I’ll always know where Francesca is and if she’s coming. She’s definitely no Casper the fucking ghost with those monstrosities on her feet.
How many blisters did she have to suffer through before her feet were
calloused enough to wear those all day, every day?
Twenty? Thirty? Maybe a weird number like forty-two.
When she walks in, her gaze immediately finds mine. I look away instantly,
unsure if she’d consider it a challenge if I met her stare.
She walks past me, her fruity perfume lingering as she eyes each of us.
“You all look like shit,” she comments snidely, and I can feel the weight of her glare spearing into the side of my head particularly.
Yeah, ‘cause it was my fucking fault I had been ran off the road and dragged out of a wrecked car. Bitch.
She pauses in front of a girl with fiery hair, lifts a burnt orange lock, and looks at the split ends in disgust.
“I told you to trim these, don’t make me ask again or Jerry gets another night
with you,” she comments, dropping the strand and moving on. The girl blinks, a
flash of pain there and gone, but Francesca has her eagle eyes focused on her next victim.