Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(13)

My legs were grabbed, and my butt scraped along a sharp surface. Someone grunted, scooped me up, and threw me over his shoulder like a dead carcass.

Vertigo rushed to my head, lips pressed against dirty cloth.

The power of terror-filled unknown sucked me into a dark place deep inside—a place full of rapists and murderers and unmentionable monsters. Self-pity oozed, and my will to survive faltered.

No!

I couldn’t be sucked into depression and give up. I would never give up. I would fight until I died; I’d teach the kidnappers they stole the wrong girl if they wanted meek and broken.

In some sick way, they proved my own self-worth. My parents may not want me, but these bastards sure did. They’d stolen me because they had to.

I was valuable. I had to stay strong and survive.

I hung over the kidnapper’s shoulder, being carted to who knew where, and something happened.

My mind fractured, literally unthreaded, splitting into two entities. The girl I was: my hopes and dreams, aspirations and love for Brax all blazed bright and true. My insecurities and need for love saddened me. I saw my own fragility.

But that didn’t matter, because the other part—the new part—was fierce. This girl had no brokenness or issues. She was warrior who’d seen blood, stared monsters in the face, and knew without a doubt her life would be hers again.

Somehow the new part wrapped around the nucleus of the old Tess, protecting, cushioning me from the horrors to come.

At least, that’s what I hoped happened.

I truly, truly hoped.



*



The hood was ripped off my head, taking some hair with it, the rest arched and spat with static electricity. I blinked, light saturating my eyes as everything shone with overexposure.

I was in a room.

Dark, dingy, not a dungeon, but not far off. Bunk beds lined each of the four walls. The lack of windows, and dampness from the floor, settled fast into my bones.

I sat on a threadbare mattress, looking around my new home. Girls huddled on each bed. All of them wore an aura of tragedy, eyes bruised with loss, skin painted with injuries and shadows.

A man loomed over me, his beard black and gross. Reaching behind him, he bared a knife.

I flinched, and tried to crawl away. Some part said he wouldn’t hurt me. Not yet. But the other part saw the knife and cowered.

I knew what a knife did. It cut things. Butchered things. I didn’t want to be butchered.

The man grunted, digging fingers into my shoulder, pressing me into the dank mattress on the bottom bunk. I yelped as he rolled me onto my belly. I kicked and twisted, trying to stay upright, fighting an already lost battle.

The motion of sawing caused the string around my wrists to bite deep into sore skin. The blade was blunt and it seemed to take forever before the bindings finally broke.

The man released me, backing away with a scowl. I slowly sat upright, rubbing my wrists, skin indented and heated with a raw, angry red.

“You. Stay.” He jabbed a finger in my face before stomping to the exit. The heavy, black door opened and he disappeared. The room echoed with a loud click as the lock slammed home.

The moment he was gone, I gawked at my new roommates. Only a few girls met my eyes, the rest slouched with fear.

I couldn’t stop staring. Eight bunk-beds. Eight women. All of us ranged from early to late twenties. There was no rhyme in our abduction. Some of us were blonde, others black, redhead, and brown. Our skin colour didn’t match either: three Asian, two black, and three white.

Nothing screamed pattern. The police wouldn’t be able to work out who’d be the next victim—it seemed any woman easy enough to steal was fair game. Whether we were tall, short, fat, slim. Big breasted, long legged. We were all there for one reason.

A reason I didn’t yet know.

A reason I didn’t want to know.

Hours passed while we stared at each other. No one talked—we didn’t need to. We communicated in our silence, deeper than words. Our souls talked. We comforted one another, all the while sharing grief over what would become of us.

The flickering light bulb illuminated our cage, sending tension rippling around the room.

Some time, hours later, the door opened and a younger man with wonky teeth and a jagged facial scar appeared, depositing a tray of eight bowls in the centre of the room. The stagnant air of our prison filled with scents of food—something stir-fried with a platter of warm bread to scoop it up with. My stomach growled; I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

My heart stuttered, thinking about Brax. It seemed so long ago, sharing our first night in Cancun, enjoying our connection.

I forced myself to stop thinking about him. It hurt too much.

No one moved, but we all stared longingly at the food once the door locked again.

I waited to see if there was a hierarchy.

No one budged.

The scent of dinner overwhelmed, and I couldn’t stand it any longer. I needed my strength to fight. I wouldn’t sit waiting—who knew when they would come for us.

I moved.

My body creaked and protested, but I stood and collected a bowl at a time, handing it with a piece of flat bread to each girl.

They gave a timid smile, a glassy look, a flush of tears. I took comfort in helping them. At least they weren’t alone. We were in this together.

When I delivered the last bowl and took my own, I had to swallow my tears. They threatened to drown me if I let them loose.