Page 12 of Paved in Venom

“What?” I slur, and then can’t get the rest of the sentence out.

The man laughs. It’s a cruel sound that sends a spike of fear straight through me. “What’s going to happen to you?” he asks. “Is that what you’re wondering?”

I nod as best I can.

He drags his thumb along my cheek. “Nothing good, sweetheart. I can promise you that.” Leaning closer, he brings his mouth close to my ear. “You shouldn’t be so trusting of strangers, little one. You’re going to regret so many things when you wake up. But first we’re going to take some photos.”

He kisses my cheek, laughing when I try to pull away from his touch. I hear the click of photos being taken, but it sounds so far away. I try to ask what’s going on, and when that fails, I try to raise my hand to get someone’s attention, but I can’t move. I have a moment of pure horror, a terror unlike anything I’ve ever known before the darkness overtakes me, leaving me with nothing.

When I wake, I have several seconds of peace before everything comes rushing back to me, and in that brief moment I realize that it’s the last moment of calm I’ll probably ever have. I sit up with a jolt, wincing at the sharp pain in my head. My hands are zip tied together at the wrists, and I’m in a small room with nothing but a dirty mat and a bucket in the corner. It’s the bucket that really brings the reality of the situation into sharp, brutal focus. I’ve seen enough movies to know that I have gone and truly fucked myself.

Wrapping my arms around my legs, I rest my head on my knees, cursing my own stupidity. I’d never once thought Adriana was anything but sincere. God, she must’ve been laughing her perfect ass off at the pathetic American girl who was so eager to tell her life story and go nightclubbing with her. And then I’d gone and drank every goddamn drink she handed me. I broke every rule there is for being safe and responsible, and now I’m in fucking Romania where no one will ever find me or even know that I’m gone.

Tears prick my eyes when I realize that no one is going to miss me. My parents, my only family, are gone. My friends that no longer talk or hang out with me, yeah, they’re not even going to notice my absence. The only person I can count on to notice is my landlord, and that’s only when the rent becomes overdue, which won’t be for six months because I paid in advance when I got the money my parents left me. I was trying to be a responsible goddamn adult.

Dragging myself to my feet, I go to inspect the door. I’m not surprised to find it locked. I debate banging on it. Do I really want to draw attention to myself? Maybe it’s better if they think I’m still knocked out. Pacing the small room, I look everywhere for hidden cameras but don’t see any. I keep glancing at the bucket because my bladder is really starting to scream at me.

Fuck it. I drop my panties and hike up my dress. With my bound wrists it takes way longer than it should. I squat over the bucket, grateful that at least it’s empty, and swallow my pride as I pee. I’m prone to UTIs, and the last thing I need is to be stuck in this room with an infection. I’m guessing that giving me antibiotics won’t be high on my captor’s list. My thighs ache by the time I’m done, but at least there’s a roll of toilet paper I can use and my bladder is no longer screaming at me.

I’ve just finished when I hear someone unlocking the door in front of me. I scurry into the corner, not caring that I’ve basically trapped myself even further. My brain is in full-on panic mode and rational thought isn’t going to be making an appearance anytime soon. The man who walks in is the same one from the club. I don’t remember much, but I remember the way he’d looked at me, the dead look in his dark eyes and the way he’d stroked my cheek.

“Good. You’re awake,” he says, walking in and eyeing the bucket.

I refuse to be embarrassed about pissing in a bucket, but I also know that’s all I’ll be doing in it. I will fucking explode from the inside out before I shit in that goddamn bucket. Just the thought of it has my cheeks heating up. He laughs like he can read my mind and straightens his tie.

“What do you want with me?” I ask, hating how shaky my voice sounds. “I’m not rich. You’re not going to get any ransom for holding me.”

He laughs again and steps closer. I hold my bound hands against my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. He braces his hands on either side of my head and leans down so we’re eye level.

“I’m not holding you for ransom.”

“Then what do you want from me?” My body starts to shake, one horrible scenario after another rushing through my mind until my breaths turn ragged and I can barely breathe.

“I’m going to sell you, little one,” he says, giving me a cruel smile, “and you’re going to make me a fucking fortune.”

He grabs my arm and pulls me from the wall, dragging me out the door. I trip, but his fingers dig into my skin, bruising me and making me let out a pained yelp.

“Time to see the doctor. Let’s hope you’re as pure as Adriana said you are. It won’t go well for you if I find out you’re just a little whore that everyone’s had a piece of.”

I look around the dirty hall, noticing all the other shut doors that line both sides. Good god, are they all filled with women like me? When I freeze at the thought, he pulls me along after him, not caring that I almost trip and fall again. The room he leads me into looks like a makeshift doctor’s office from hell. There’s an exam table that’s seen better days, dark stains on the floor that I’m hoping will always remain a mystery to me, and a line of utensils that I’m willing to bet are not sterilized.

“Wait,” I say, trying to pull my arm free of his grip. “Please don’t do this.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” he tells me. “You’re nothing but a product to me, and we’re about to find out if you’re a valuable one or not.”

I meet his eyes, stunned at the coldness in them. It’s not hate, that at least I could maybe reason with. Hate is an emotion I can understand, something I’m familiar with because I’m feeling a shit ton of it right now, but his eyes are empty. There’s nothing there. There’s no reasoning with a person who views you as nothing but property.

When an older man enters the room, the first thing I do is beg. “Please help me,” I plead with him. The man looks up, giving me a friendly smile, looking every bit like someone’s favorite grandpa, and it gives me a small dose of hope. “I’m being held here against my will. Please help me.”

The man walks over to me, patting my arm with a smile as he says something in Romanian to my captor.

“English?” I ask him. “Please, do you speak English?”

My captor gives an annoyed sigh and pulls me to the table. “He doesn’t speak English, and he wouldn’t give a fuck even if he did. Now get on the damn table.”

When I hesitate, he lifts me up, roughly sitting me on the dirty exam table. He stands right next to me, daring me to try and make a run for it. The old man walks over and sits on a stool in front of me. He pulls out the stirrups for my feet as I tighten my legs together, knowing and fearing what’s about to come.

My captor tsks at me like I’m a disobedient child and grabs onto my legs, spreading them apart and putting my feet in the stirrups.

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