Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
She knew he’d been successful. One step down, about ten more to go.
But they’d moved one space forward.
Both he and Noelle were so much weaker, physically and emotionally, and he had no idea how long they could remain hopeful on so little. What he did know was that if breaking free was possible, they were very quickly running out of time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Collector swirled his drink, tipping it back and closing his eyes as the liquid burned down his throat. He rarely drank alcohol. He didn’t enjoy a dulling of his sharpness, and he didn’t require being anesthetized, either physically or mentally.
But some things required a special celebration, and so the Collector toasted Noelle with one shot of Old Fitzgerald Bourbon, a specialty liquor of which only a finite stock was still available to those bourbon enthusiasts who could afford the $6K price tag.
The Collector set the empty shot glass on the bar cart in his office and then opened the french doors to the patio. He took the bottle with him, smashing it against the outside stone wall of the house and watching as the amber liquid pooled on the flagstone floor.
There was much more where that came from.
The Collector’s lips tipped, and he brushed his hands, reentering the house and then sitting down at his desk. He’d been delivered back to his home that morning after a day of travel. Somewhere south, he thought, based on the few clues he was able to pick up, even in his drugged state. The organizers insisted on it, and though the Collector was loath to put his narcotized body under someone else’s control—someone else’s ownership—he’d made an exception.
He hoped the girl and the boy appreciated it, but he could see why they might not. Even if they knew what he had sacrificed.
He pulled the envelope forward that they had left with him, the souvenir he’d paid for. If others enjoyed mementos of their time spent with a contestant, he imagined they chose a piece of clothing or perhaps a lock of hair. Soiled underwear no doubt went for a pretty penny. But he’d chosen what he had for a reason, and she’d already impressed him greatly by committing the theft he’d hoped she would. He’d watched from a screen on the wall outside the room as she’d stared at the camera defiantly, breaking the pencil in two, and—he thought at least—slipping the piece of graphite under the wristband of her filthy sweatshirt.
He hoped she’d managed to steal a long enough piece.
Only time would tell. Time that was slowly filtering away, the grains of their survival dwindling.
He pictured her lying on the bed, her naked skin dry and dirty. Cracked and bloody in spots. She’d looked malnourished and broken. Completely vulnerable. But ah, looks could be deceiving. Who knew that better than him?
He thought back to the way she’d fought against the pleasure of his kneading hands. He almost regretted causing her such humiliation. And he knew well that it was a humiliation to submit in such a way to your subjugator. She might as well have called him master with that moan, and she’d obviously known it by the tears that followed, staining her blindfold. But the men watching only understood two things when it came to a rental: violence and degradation. He had to blend if he was going to win. Perhaps, initially, they’d thought his form of manipulation weak, but then, he’d earned her tears, while they had not.
Should it trouble him that manipulation came so easily? Or did it? Because his time spent with Noelle had held truth too. He’d uttered a few chosen words using the accent of his native tongue and then mixed it with a subtle rendition of the other accents that were a result of the various languages he spoke. He hadn’t used the accent of his youth in a long time, though he did move between the others, depending on whom he was conversing with and which aspect of his life. He’d been so many versions of himself and found it easy to slip on each persona. A skill honed over decades. Allowing his original accent to be heard—even briefly, even murmured—had been a small risk, he supposed, but the part of him that was still the boy he’d once been had wanted her to know him. Or at least to hear him.
He’d also given her information about who they were. He’d waited for the flashing light on the wall that would warn him he was broaching subjects that were off limits. He’d only get one chance. But no such warning came. He assumed, though he had no proof, as this was his first game, that if he didn’t heed the warning, he would not be making his flight back home.
They hadn’t stopped him from repeating the story, the one his game sponsor had shared with the Collector, bragging about his past exploits. Perhaps it even amused them. What could one little rabbit do with a tidbit of vague information he’d presented as some tall tale? But certainly they’d recognized themselves as the king and his court that he spoke of and believed him to be giving them a nod of appreciation.