“Then let’s get a fucking plan!” Ky shouted. Styx whistled for the prospects to come in. Lil’ Ash and Slash entered the room, and Ky flicked his chin. “We need food, liquor, and keep that shit coming. We’re gonna be here a while.”
Lil’ Ash and Slash left. Then we got down to planning. Trying to figure out how the fuck to get into this ghost-town whorehouse.
And all the time, all I could see in my head was red. Red for blood, red for the mist that had descended over my eyes. And above it all, I saw the longest red hair. Long red hair and pale skin tied to a motherfucking tree.
Freckles.
Blue eyes.
Phebe.
Cult bitch turned Meister’s whore.
Chapter Two
Phebe
My arms and legs ached as I tried to turn over on the bed. I was sweating, so hot that when I forced my mouth to open, I gasped for air. I moved my tongue, but it barely shifted in my dry mouth.
I was thirsty.
So thirsty.
I breathed through my nose, waiting for the pain in my aching muscles to ebb. When it did, I forced my eyes to open. I flinched at the light coming in from between the faded curtains covering the tiny high window, trying vainly to blink away the brightness. My head thumped and my stomach growled. But I forced myself to sit up. I wanted to cry out as my muscles protested the movement. I glanced down at my naked limbs, fighting back nausea when I saw the blood gathered on the dirty sheets between my legs.
Flashes of last night pushed through the thick fog that always seemed to be there in my mind. Meister pinning me down to the bed. Covering me with his huge muscled body, hurting me. Injecting me with the sweet potion that took away all my fears and hurt.
I liked Meister’s potion.
I needed it.
Then I saw him gripping my arms as he smashed his mouth against mine, biting my lips and drawing blood from the flesh. He lapped at the hot liquid. I remembered his hands forcing my legs apart. And I remembered his fingers finding my core and thrusting roughly inside. One finger, two, and then more. More until I could no longer hold back my scream.
And then I heard his laugh, his deep appreciation for my pain. Before his hand wrapped around my neck as his entire fist slipped from within me. The reprieve of being empty lasted only seconds, until he thrust his manhood inside me. And he was even rougher than before. Slamming into me while robbing me of my breath, squeezing at my throat. I scratched him. I clawed, but he only growled louder, hardened more. Until at last he spilled himself within me, collapsing on top of me with a long thunderous groan.
In the aftermath, I had stared at the ceiling, silent tears swimming in my eyes as I let the potion flood me and whisk me away from this hell.
I liked being taken away.
I rarely left this room, this bed. I didn’t know how long I had been here. I saw no one but Meister, mostly. Sometimes he would take me outside to walk around this . . . this . . . whatever this place was. Sometimes he would allow me to feel the sun on my face, to smell the fresh air, when he deemed I had earned it. But that was rare. I always disappointed him; he always hurt me. On those precious days spent in the sun, I would occasionally see some men, but they would never speak to me.
I saw no other females.
I was alone.
Just me and Meister.
At the sound of the lock turning in my door, I tensed, eyes wide, waiting for him to come through. My arm itched, and my legs shifted restlessly on the wet mattress. The chain attached to my wrist pulled tight as my arms twitched with excitement. My blood raced in my veins and my pulse hammered in anticipation of what Meister would be bringing me.
He would have the potion that made me forget.
I smiled.
Then he was inside the room, as big and domineering as ever with his thick-set neck and shaved head. He wore jeans and a white tank. His heavily tattooed arms bulged with muscles. His blue eyes locked on me, and as it did every time I saw him, fear infused me and glued me to the spot.
“Phebe,” Meister said softly. My eyes never left him as he moved around my bed before stopping at the foot. He reached out, and his finger circled softly on my ankle. The insatiable heat that was burning up my body suddenly morphed into ice at his touch. And then his fingers traced up my calf and upward along my inner thigh until they stopped at the entrance of my core.
I never once took my attention off his eyes. They flared at the sight of the blood that had pooled between my legs. My breath caught in my chest when his fingers slipped along my folds. I wanted to cry out at the rawness of the pain I felt—the after-effects of last night. But I kept it locked inside, only to lose control and retch when Meister brought his bloodied fingers to his mouth and licked his tongue along the wet tips.
I rolled to the side, to the bucket he kept beside me, and heaved dry retches as my body vainly attempted to vomit. Nothing came up. Instead, my body yearned for the potion. It yearned for the liquid that would take away the bad and usher in only the good. I felt the bed dip beside me. Meister pulled my long, sticky hair from my overheated face.
“Shh . . .” he crooned lovingly. He ran his hand down my spine and traced his finger between the crack of my behind. I moaned, feeling sick, lost, the searing heat of the craving rushing through my veins.
But he didn’t stop. Meister never stopped, no matter how much I tried to protest. He took. He took and took and took.
He pulled me up and laid me down flat on the bed. My head swam as I tried to focus. It took several seconds for my eyesight to clear and for the room to swim back into view.
Meister was holding my chained arm out toward him. My wrist rested on his lap, and he ghosted his fingers up and down my upturned limb. My skin was paler than I remembered it ever being; it was peppered with red marks, some bruised and scabbing over, some fresh and weeping.
“Is this what you want, meine Liebchen?” Meister said, his voice as soft as a whisper. I had no idea what he called me, but he was always gentle when he spoke these words to me.
Almost loving.
Every time he did, he nearly tricked me into thinking he actually cared.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I nodded. My veins almost burst with need. They felt as though they were reaching from my skin, searching for the rush they craved, the liquid that was a balm on my tortured soul.
On my sinful soul.
When I opened my eyes, Meister held up a needle for me to see. I resisted the urge to lash out and push it into my flesh. Meister was in control. I had learned that with him, free will did not exist.
As my mind drifted off into a kaleidoscope of dark memories and pain, I felt the familiar sting of a needle entering a vein. Then a surge of light and bliss flowed through my body, lifting me into an ethereal state, a blanket of warmth and pain-free liberty.