Chapter Eight

Zamsii 

My head is killing me, almost like I’ve had one too many drinks. My face is aching, and my whole body is stiff from being in one position too long. Groaning, I keep my eyes shut to try and let the pain fade away as I rack my brain for what happened. But it’s all a blur, and the more I try, the more the hammers dig into my brain.

Feeling around with my hand for my gun, I freeze. This isn’t my usual crappy bedding…this is fucking silk. Who the hell has silk bedding?

No one I know, that’s for sure.

That’s when it all comes rushing back. The goons. The Cobras. The punch…

Snapping my eyes open, I stare up at the white ceiling, and right above me is a goddamn crystal chandelier. My heart slams in my chest as I shuffle up to the headboard, leaning against it as I prod my aching face, that bastard. I don’t think anything is broken though. Breathing heavily, I panic as I look around at my surroundings.

They stole me.

Took me from my bar and left me in what looks like a fucking hotel room.

It’s so…clean. Way too clean. All white walls and a deep grey carpeted floor. On the wall opposite the huge, king-sized bed I’m in is a flat screen TV bigger than my bathroom. To the right, the wall gives way to floor-to-ceiling windows which, when I slide from the bed and stumble over to them, show me the city.

It’s spread out beneath me like a goddamn poster. We’re so high up and right smack bam in the middle of it. Turning away, I spot two doors on either side of the TV. I peek my head in one to see a built-in wardrobe. And by that, I mean a room with shelves upon shelves, mirrors with lights between them, and a sofa in the middle. Shutting the door with a disgusted sneer of my lips, I try the other one.

It’s a bathroom. The left wall is taken up by an all glass shower cubicle with four shower heads aimed down, and a grey tiled seat in the back corner. To the back is a huge tub, big enough to hold at least six people. To the right are two sinks with a framed mirror above it. The toilet is tucked away next to me. It looks like someone spared no expense, the fucking rich bastards.

Heading back into the room, I scan the space looking for anything I can use as a weapon. Next to the bed are two antique, grey bedside tables. With lamps on both. Perfect. I race across the room on bare feet, since some bastard took my boots. Ripping the lamp from the wall, I hold it like a bat as I head to the white door to the left which clearly leads out of the room.

Trying the handle, I find it locked, of fucking course. I drop the lamp to my side and glare around at the room. These fuckers, they think they can own me? That I’m someone they can buy?

They’re going to learn that money can’t buy obedience. I’m no man’s object. They are going to regret the day they took me.

Cobras? Bitch, please, I bite too.

I wait for over half an hour to see if they will come and unlock the door, but they don’t and I get bored. Pissed and bored isn’t a good combination for me. I have the insane urge to mess the place up, it’s too perfect, too clean. So I do. Grinning, I head to the bathroom and decide to take my anger out on their precious bedroom.

Smashing the lamp into the mirror, I watch it shatter into pieces. I grin, picking up a piece, accidentally cutting myself. Hissing, I stare at the blood coating the glass and dripping to the pristine floor. Eh, fuck it.

Sauntering back into the bedroom, I let my blood drip behind me as I walk to the bed and start slashing. I get it all out. My fury at them, my rage at my father.

I should have known better by now, but every goddamn time I think I’m free of him, he does something. But this? Selling me? Even I didn’t think he would be so low.

With a scream, I stab and slash until my arm aches and I’m panting. Feathers from the pillows cover me and the floor, the mattress has gaping holes in it, and the bedding is covered in blood and ripped to shreds.

It looks like I feel and makes me smile.

I’m laughing when the door opens. Hiding the glass in the back pocket of my shorts, I step away, my eyes narrowed. Sylvester strolls inside. He looks around at the mess, and his arched eyebrow and the slight dipping of his perfect lips are the only signs of his displeasure.

I’m a panting, sweaty mess, and he’s standing there in a suit like a goddamn model. I hate him, and not just because he kidnapped me and locked me in his creepy clean apartment.

“Well, I see you’re making yourself comfortable,” he comments, his voice smooth and low. Like a good shot of Jack. Does anything ruffle this man? I want to run over there and wipe my blood all over his perfect suit just to see what he would do.

“Let me go,” I demand, but he ignores me. Bending down, he picks up a pillowcase and holds it in the air with one finger, showing off the material that’s cut to ribbons.

“Your father sold you, you are ours now.” His tone is so matter-of-fact that I want to explode again.

“I’m a human! You can’t just sell another person!” I scream.

“It seems we can.” He shrugs, dropping the pillowcase. “Your anger at the situation or disbelief will not make it any less real, I assure you. Your father did sell you to us, and you’re now ours. I suggest you find a way to deal with that.”

Deal with that?

Oh, this motherfucker.

Gripping the glass in my back pocket, I storm closer, getting in this face. “Let me go or I swear I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” He smirks, those ice-filled eyes finally thawing a bit to show a challenge there.

A dare.

The glass digs into my skin, cutting it anew as I whip out my hand and slice it towards his unprotected face. He blinks, his hand grabbing mine before the glass is an inch away from his cheek. He tightens his grip, making me gasp as it grinds my bones together, pain sparking through me. “You are ours, Oyizamsii. If we want to lock you up, we will. If we want to punish you for being a brat, we will. If we want to fuck you…” He leans closer, pressing into the glass, and a bead of blood bubbles on his cheek as he lowers his voice. “We will. If we want to kill you…we will, and there is nothing you can do about it. Deal with it, love, or you might find yourself in a worse place than this.”

Leaning back, he snaps my wrist to the side, making my fingers spasm and release the glass which he pockets. I stare at him as fear and something I don’t want to name fills me, watching that drop of blood racing down his cheek. He pulls out a handkerchief and stops it before it can reach his suit, wiping it away like he didn’t just lean into glass to make a point.

“I can see you’re in a bad mood, so I’ll leave you to think on what I said.” He turns, and I race forward, but I’m too slow. The door slams shut, and the deafening click of a lock slamming into place has me screaming at the wood as I batter my injured hand against it.

When no one comes back, I cut up more of the pillow and bind my hand to stop the bleeding before looking around. It was petty, but I seriously do feel better. Sighing, I lie near the window, staring out at the city as the sky starts to darken.

I used to live in this town, loved exploring it and seeing it grow. That was before I realised the darkness that hides beneath all the glass and glamour. And the Cobras? They are one of the worst.

When you’re a kid, they tell you stories of monsters hiding under your bed or in the dark. They don’t tell you of the very real human ones. Those who prey on people weaker than them, or even the monsters that hide within ourselves.

Rich or poor, it doesn’t matter, humans are still monsters. They hide behind pretty faces, loved ones, blood. Yet they are all the same. They all want you for something, the difference is…how far they’re willing to go to get it.

It seems the Cobras will go all the way.

And it’s all because of my piece of shit father. Is it not enough he ruined my childhood? That I’ve spent every day of my life paying for his mistakes? No, now my future is taken away too.

Feeling sorry for myself, I close my eyes and try to rest my aching head. I’m a fighter, a survivor, always have been and always will be. I can get through this, I’ve survived worse before. Just because I’m locked up in a penthouse doesn’t mean I’m not locked up…

The door slams open, waking me. It’s late, really late, and dark. My stomach is hurting from not eating for almost two days, aside from those leftover bits of bread I found.

It’s late.

That only means one thing.

I cover my mouth, trying to slow my breathing so he won’t hear. My heart pounds so loudly, I want to cry. I hear his dragging footsteps as he stumbles up the stairs. Please, please let him forget I’m here.

Let this night be the night he carries on walking.

It’s not. He stops outside my door. I watch from my bed as his shadow blocks the light at the crack in the bottom before his big hand turns the handle and swings it open. He stands there for a moment, peering in at me. His silhouette is all I can see, so I can’t see his face or his expression. I know my mum’s passed out, she injected herself before I went to bed, so she’ll be out until morning. It’s just me and him. And he knows it.

I can smell the whiskey on his breath from here, see the anger vibrating through his body. It’s always the same. He gets drunk, he loses money, he takes it out on me. It’s a vicious cycle. Every night, I expect it to be different, and every night, it’s the same.

If you’ve never had a parent let you down, hurt you, and break your heart, then you don’t know how it feels. They’re supposed to protect you, love you, yet my parents are the reason I’m scared. I learned from a young age that they’re the ones who hurt me, no one else. They don’t care if I live or die, I’m just an object to them.

To vent to, to take for granted.

I can smell the whiskey on his breath from here, see the anger vibrating through his body. It’s always the same. He gets drunk, he loses money, he takes it out on me. It’s a vicious cycle. Every night, I expect it to be different, and every night, it’s the same.

When I watch other kids at school talking about their parents, I get angry, the same anger my daddy has. I hate them for it, for being happy. For enjoying their life. Their parents love them, treasure them, shower them with gifts and happiness. Why can’t I have that?

Yet even if my dad or mum ever tried to, I would flinch, expecting the punch that would come right after it. Because the truth is, I know at the base of all people, at their very core…all they care about is themselves. What something can bring them, do for them, and when push comes to shove, they will always choose themselves.

Some people are born with a rage, a need to hurt.

Some are born greedy, an addictive personality. Others hide it well, but in the end, we’re all the same. We all bleed the same colour, and we are all just searching for something to make the truth of our souls disappear so we feel like good people.

I’m not fooling him, he knows I’m awake, so I sit up and face him. I refuse to cry, I refuse to beg. Not anymore. I did once, and I thought he might actually stop. I know better now. He won’t stop until he kills me one day, but until then, I’m just surviving from one day to the next with that truth hanging over me.

“Get up,” he slurs. I purse my lips, but do as I’m told, knowing that will get this over more quickly.

But every time this happens, something grows inside me, that anger morphing until I have to bite my tongue to stop from hitting back, from lashing out. I refuse to be like him.

He stumbles my way, swearing when he almost falls over. “I lost two thousand tonight, you know whose fault that is?” he yells.

I should say nothing, just nod and take the hit like a good girl.

But maybe I’m not a good girl, maybe I’m just as messed up as he is. “I’m guessing mine,” I drawl.

Dumb, real dumb.

For a drunk man, the punch comes fast, he’s big, and it shows in the power behind his fists. It smacks into my gut, bending me over as I struggle to breathe. My stomach aches even more now than just hunger pains.

He grabs my hair, making me cry out as he jerks up my head. His crooked teeth flash in the dark, his face blurry from my tears. He snarls at me, his rancid breath wafting into my face and making me gag. “Yours, you fucking little shit.”

I’m so busy trying not to vomit—the last time I did, he broke my arm—that I don’t see it coming. He throws me into the wall, and my head hits it with a sickening thud. My body goes limp as I slide down it, pain fracturing through my skull until I can’t see.

I can’t hear.

Then it all goes dark.

Gasping, I jerk upright. Sweat covers my entire body as adrenaline rushes through me. I lift my hand and press it to the back of my head where the dent still rests from that night. Fuck, that’s why I drink before bed, to keep the nightmares away.

Blowing out a breath, I blink my blurry eyes to clear the sleep from them, knowing I won’t be going back anytime soon. Not with my memories so dark tonight. Instead, I stare out at the city, it’s still bright. All the light illuminating its angles and streets, even in the dark. Like a beacon.

Another lie.

That’s when a wispy, dark voice comes from behind me, sending fear surging through me.

I’m not alone.

“Can’t sleep, Little Bird? I wonder what you dream of…”