Page 10 of Twisted Prince
“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.
