Jess Haines - Enslaved By the Others

Marking me forever a vampire’s property.

All the while I couldn’t move, though I tried, almost biting through the leather that had been shoved so unceremoniously in my mouth. Nothing existed but that white-hot pain, the sizzle of it against my flesh. The sickening smell of my own skin and hair burning. Nothing mattered but escaping it.

And even after the brand was pulled away, the scent of charred meat heavy on the air, I was still screaming and fighting against the bonds to get away from it. In that moment, and for some time after, nothing existed in my world but the searing heat and agony radiating from my left hip.

Once my screams tapered off into hitching sobs, Max’s cold fingers brushed against my cheek, tracing the trail of my tears.

“Be proud, pet. You bear the symbol of the coinage my people used when I was still alive. The city that I ruled. No one will doubt who you belong to when they see it.”

I moaned against the gag and did my best not to throw up.

He ran his fingers through my hair, gentle, soothing, and it destroyed something in me to realize I was leaning into his touch in some wretched bid for comfort.

“As soon as you’ve recovered,” he said, like it was nothing more than a momentary setback, as though he hadn’t just branded me like cattle, “you’ll be pleased to show it off. It means you have my protection. That you’re my favored stock.” He leaned in to press his lips to my temple in a cold kiss. “That Rhathos has no claim to you. Not anymore. Never again.”

He removed the leather strap from between my teeth while his assistants took off the other restraints. I was too shocked to do more than shake uncontrollably in his arms as he picked me up, a tiny sound of hurt and fear squeezed out of me as I tried to focus beyond the blinding pain.

He carried me back upstairs, though he didn’t immediately bring me back to the prison I was growing to know so well. Instead, he took me to yet another room I had never seen and laid me out on the bed. It was some kind of guest room, spacious and airy. A high ceiling featured snow-blanketed skylights rather than regular windows. All I could do was shiver there in misery, limp with pain and a soul-deep form of violation, surrounded by what felt like utterly incongruous luxury.

Once I was settled, he retrieved a tray of medical supplies left on a nearby dresser. Painkillers, bandages, and some kind of aloe gel for burns. Knowing he had planned for this in advance didn’t make any kind of difference other than leaving me feeling even sicker. He must have done this before to know exactly what supplies he’d need to have on hand and how to apply them once it was over. All I could do was try not to choke on the pills or pass out as he applied the gel. He made soothing noises as he did it, which didn’t help in the least, though I wondered why he was doing it himself instead of leaving the task to an underling.

Strangely solicitous, he sat down beside me, angling himself so he could stroke my hair and wipe away my tears, like some twisted parent comforting a wounded child. I didn’t want his touch to feel good, but the chill of his skin felt so soothing against my burning cheeks that I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.

He didn’t say anything, which I was glad for. If he did, I really would puke all over his nice silk sheets.

I hadn’t forgotten he was a monster. Far from it. It was just too difficult to fight when all I wanted to do was pass out from the pain. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he was shooting for some sicko version of Stockholm syndrome in hopes that I would become bonded to him, or that I would take this as some kind of lesson in obedience and servitude. And while feelings of disgust roiled in the back of my mind—not only for him, but for myself and everything that led up to this moment— he was right. I wouldn’t forget what he had done anytime soon.

Nor would I forgive.

Though I was certainly afraid of what else he could do to me, tonight I would dream of nothing but revenge.

At some point, I drifted off. It must have been the pills.

Once I regained enough of my senses to realize I was still alive and that Max might be in the room, I sat bolt upright—and nearly passed out again.

It took some time for the agony to fade enough for me to focus. Max was gone. Sunlight filtered in through the skylights but the layer of snow made it dim and weak. There was a glass of water and a couple more white pills left on the end table within easy reach.

Anticipating my needs. Fancy that.

The pills took the worst of the edge off. The hazy, blurred vision and weakness like a weight pressing on my chest, making it difficult to breathe, were a small price to pay for disconnection from the constant itch and burn radiating from the mark on my hip.

For hours, I couldn’t move my left leg or shift my butt without excruciating pain. The only thought I could console myself with was that eventually I wouldn’t even feel it anymore, and once that happened, I would do everything in my power to shove that hot piece of iron straight up Max’s ass.

Even my thoughts rang with false bravado. Truth was, I was hurting and terrified and the pain was the only thing stopping me from trying to hide myself under the bed or in a closet, somewhere it might take him longer to find me again.

Branded. Scarred for life. The concept of enslavement had almost been abstract to me until this moment. Of course I realized I was Max’s captive, but at this point there was no denying I had been bumped down in status from hostage and was now relegated to property.

Property didn’t have feelings. Property could be broken or discarded on a whim.

Sick with the realization of what the brand symbolized, I scanned the room again, hoping there might be something sharp I could use to cut short his games with me.

Free will. At least I still had that much left to me. He couldn’t control all my choices. I could choose my own way out. He couldn’t control that part of me.

Desperation for escape—by any means necessary—was impetus enough for me to fight the pain long enough to sit up and focus through the tears.

The small container of ointments on top of the dresser wouldn’t do much for me. I doubted there was enough there to overdose on. There were no sharp objects in the room. I wasn’t confident that I could bring myself to asphyxiation, rather than just passing out, by using the sheets as a rope.

That gave me pause. I glanced up at the snow-dusted skylight. Then to the dresser.

It would be dangerous, but I could stack one of the end tables on top of the dresser and reach the window. The risk of breaking my neck didn’t sound so bad a death compared to what might happen if I stayed quiet and still, meekly waiting for Max to come back.

Getting out was only part of the problem. I needed to run. Through the snow. All I had was the silk robe—no shoes, no jacket, nothing to protect me against the elements.

It didn’t matter. It was worth risking a fall that might snap my neck or drifting off to a final sleep in a bed of snow. What did matter was getting the hell out of there before someone came back to move me out of this room to one with no escape routes at all.

I inched my way to the side of the bed, wheezing with every shock of heat and hurt that jolted up my side, my whole body gone slick with the sweat of desperate terror. Before going any farther, I grabbed a pillow and pulled off the casing, balling it up and shoving it between my teeth to keep from breaking them with the clenching and to muffle the involuntary cries of pain.

It was a good thing I’d thought to do that before actually standing up. Once I shook off the momentary blackout, I was terrified that someone might have heard me anyway. Slowly sitting up from my slumped position against the bed, I wavered on my feet, woozy with shock. Though I knew I should take my time, the thought of Max or one of his cronies checking in on me spurred me to movement.