Page 9 of Riot

And worse?

You’ll beg for it.

“Virgin!”

Boaz’s voice cuts through the night, sharp as a whip, slicing the fragile peace I had managed to wrap around myself. I flinch automatically, muscles clenching before my mind can even catch up. It’s a reflex now—like breathing, like blinking. My body moves faster than my thoughts when it comes to him.

I hate that he calls me that. But I’d also hate if he used my real name.

I grab my hijab from the hook by the door, fingers fumbling as I wrap it around my head, each movement too fast, too frantic. My stomach twists into tight, painful knots. Boaz doesn’t tolerate delays. Not without consequences. Not without blood.

The room I leave behind isn’t a room at all. It’s a cage pretending to be paradise. A gilded lie dressed in luxury.Everything is white—curtains, bedding, the velvet armchair no one sits in, the dresser no one touches. White walls, white carpet, white ceiling. Blinding and sterile, like being trapped inside a cloud you can’t breathe in. Boaz says white represents virtue. Cleanliness. Innocence. But to me? It represents control and blandness. It’s like an eraser that got rid of all that made me — me.

I slip into the hallway, barefoot, the marble floor icy against my skin. The air hums with tension, thick and heavy, pressing against my chest until it’s hard to draw a full breath. The house feels alive tonight—watching, listening, waiting.

When I reach his quarters, Boaz is sprawled across his oversized bed like some bloated king from an old, dying empire. Silk pajamas cling to his thick frame, his belly pushing stubbornly against the fabric. He’s still wearing sunglasses, even in the dark, because he thinks it makes him look powerful. Mysterious. Above consequence.

He smells like sweat and expensive cologne layered too thick, trying to smother the body odor underneath. I lower my eyes automatically, shoulders tight, every muscle in my body wound too tight to be safe. Silent. Invisible. That’s how you survive here.

"Go fetch me a nightcap," he says, waving a lazy hand like a Roman emperor demanding wine and grapes. "Bring me one of the pets."

My blood turns cold.

I freeze for just a second—just long enough for my lungs to tighten painfully—then pivot without a word. No questions. No hesitation. Obedience is survival.

My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to beat its way free from my chest. I move through the hallways on autopilot, gliding across marble floors like a ghost. I've trained myself to move without sound, without drawing attention, without breathing too loud.

The service staircase waits for me at the far end of the hall—a narrow, steep tunnel that curves downward into the belly of the house. It was built to be unseen. A passage meant for shame, not sunlight.

The wood creaks faintly under my bare feet as I descend. Every step is familiar. Every step feels heavier.

At the bottom, I reach for the light switch with a hand that no longer trembles—because what’s the point? Fear has long since curdled into something quieter. Something heavier.

The light floods the basement. And there they are.

Seven cages line the far wall, perfectly spaced like exhibits in a museum. Each one is a glass enclosure—no bars, no chains. Just glass walls, white bedding, a faux-fur rug that looks soft from a distance but feels like sandpaper up close. Sterile. Clinical. Beautiful, if you’re blind enough to mistake captivity for care.

Inside each one lies a woman. Young. Beautiful. Broken. Boaz’s sacred pets. His trophies.

They lie curled on their beds, motionless but awake. Dolls on display. Puppets with their strings cut. Some stare blankly at the ceiling. Some close their eyes and pretend to sleep. Some clutch their knees like it’ll keep them from shattering completely.

The air smells thick with bleach and expensive perfume. He tries to mask the stink of sorrow, but it bleeds through no matter how hard the housekeepers scrubs. I am not among them. Not because he sees me as better. No.

Because I am damaged.

Because once, long ago, a burn marred my arm—a blemish on Boaz’s sick fantasy of flawless beauty. To him, I was tarnished merchandise. Unfit for display. So he made me something else instead.

The caretaker. The jailer. The servant. A different kind of prisoner, but no less caged.

Tonight, it’s Kierra’s turn.

She’s been here for three years.

Three endless, bleeding years.

Her hair is still soft and honey-brown, falling in gentle waves, but the light in her hazel eyes has long since died. She was sixteen when she arrived. Barely older than I was when Boaz bought me. A virgin, of course. That had been stripped from her fast enough.

I unlock her cage slowly, my movements deliberate and careful, as if being too fast might shatter her completely. She stands stiffly, arms folded across her chest, wearing nothing but the blankness that comes from too much pain.

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