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  “Good.” Shoving me forward, he walked a few feet and stopped. “Welcome to your new home, Bijou.”

  Hearing him call me by name, hearing him add a French flare to the end, it made me sick. My heart seized to beat, my lungs refused to engage as I held my breath for the longest minute of my life.

  He knows my name. . . He knows who I am.

  Was he telling the truth? Did my father really have something to do with this?

  Cutting my wrists free, he held them firmly in place with one large hand. Pressing a palm between my shoulder blades, Xavier gave me a hard push.

  Stumbling forward, I tripped over my feet, falling onto my hands and knees. The creak of a door cut through the air, followed by the metal clink of a lock.

  Reaching for my face, I tore off the blindfold, feeling my lips and cheeks, gently touching the tender skin. I was sore, but all of it hadn't really sunk in yet.

  I didn't feel the pain, I didn't feel any of the hurt or anguish from being brutalized, stolen, taken for an unknown fee.

  I felt numb.

  I felt cold.

  I felt nothing.

  * * * *

  That's how many?

  Scratching the back of the door, I counted the lines inside my head. One hundred and twenty-two days. . . Four months.

  It had only been four fucking months since Diablo took my world and burned it to the ground. It felt like so much longer. Each second, minute, hour; all of it smeared together into a giant mass of shit.

  I hated time, I hated counting days, but I had to do it. I didn't want to lose track of the sun and the moon, of dates that were once important and moments that held a significance in my life.

  That means it's November seventh.

  Today. . . Today was my birthday, I was nineteen. A sadness filled my chest, weighing me down. It hurt, it really hurt to be there and not at home.

  I was going to miss out on my father waking me up with a big hug and the scent of dough boys wafting in from the kitchen. It was a tradition, something I looked forward to.

  Every year my father would make me dough boys, smothered in powdered sugar, and we'd spend the morning stuffing our faces until we felt shaky and full and couldn't move.

  Not this year. . . Maybe next year.

  Maybe. . . A word that barely means the thought it's built on.

  Dropping the small stone to the floor, I shook my head to myself. What good was thinking about a maybe when I had no clue what tomorrow would bring?

  Hope.

  I can't lose that, I can't let it fizzle out like a dying flame.

  I still needed to think there was hope. If I lost that, I'd have absolutely nothing.

  Hope was the stem, hope was the petals and pollen that kept me going. Hope gave me the strength to wake up day after day, and push through this black cloud, knowing that outside those walls was a world waiting for me to come home.

  I wonder if Dad still made dough boys today?

  Backing away from the door, I curled my legs into my chest and tucked my head in between my knees. What has happened to me? How did my life end up like this?

  I had no answers. I had thoughts, I had ideas, but no one would tell me why.

  Tidbits of information would float in the air and I would snatch them up the best I could. Quiet conversations gave way to puzzle shaped knowledge I was trying to piece together.

  My father was somehow twisted around the sour root that held me here. But I had no clue what he had done or how far into this world he had come.

  It was hard for me to imagine my dad mingling with these men in any way. The man I knew was a simple guy. He liked to watch football on Sundays, he liked to add sugar to his homemade sauce because he said it helped bring down the acidity.

  My dad was the guy at the bar who would buy a round of shots because he heard it was someone's birthday, or he would give his change at the register to the customer behind him just because he thought it was a nice thing to do.

  To me, my father was just that—simple. He owned a small bar downtown, he taught me to drive, he showed me the pride in working hard and reaping the rewards of doing your best.

  Where he fit into this world, it was beyond me.

  The light creeping in from under the door faded as Diablo stepped in close. “Knock knock, Bijou, are you awake?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good, time for breakfast.” Unlocking the door, I blocked my eyes as a burst of light hit my pupils like a high speed train. “Get up, I want eggs today. And this time, I want you to do them right, no fucking it up like the other day.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Pushing up and onto my feet, I cupped my hands in front of my waist and kept my eyes on the floor.

  “How's your cheek doing?” Grabbing my chin, he forced my head up and turned it to the side. “Still swollen, but it's looking better. One of these days you'll learn to do things right and you won't need punishments anymore.”

  I don't believe your fucking lies! You'll never stop, you enjoy it too much.

  Digging his thumb into the soft flesh of my bottom lip, he forced me to look at his face. Diablo's eyes burned with fire and crackled with destruction. “Because if you don't, you're of no use to me.” Throwing my head to the side, he held out his arm, guiding me to walk in front of him. “And we both know what happens when you become useless.”

  I'm dead.

  I wanted to laugh in his face when he said it. I didn't need him to remind me of what I was fighting for—my life.

  My bare feet tapped silently down the hall as Diablo's eyes drilled a hole into the back of my head. This wasn't how he wanted it, he wanted me to walk behind him like a fucking dog. But I made a mistake, I tried to hurt him.

  It was a risk I had to take. He was walking, the same path we were walking now, his head held high and still. He had allowed me to keep my pajamas the first few nights, and I tried to use them against him.

  I had pulled the string out of the pants, taking that moment of his confident steps, and using it against him. Jumping onto his back, I tried to wrap the string around his neck and strangle him.

  It didn't work. Diablo was able to toss me over his shoulder and onto the floor. The string broke, snapping in two, his breathing full and not hindered. That was the moment I knew what true evil really looked like.

  Those first few weeks were the hardest, his words were harsh and his hand was fierce. It still was, honestly nothing had really changed; except me, I had changed.

  I made an effort to stay whole.

  That small difference seemed to help a little. It gave way to what Diablo called his nicer side. But there wasn't really a big difference. He was just acting, pretending like he was the star in some grandiose play.

  And somehow, I had become the villain.

  He would pour false concern on me like it was the water keeping me alive. He'd hit me for screwing something up, then cleanse my wounds. He'd call me a dumb fucking bitch, then tell me how sweet I was when I did something exactly the way he wanted it.

  I did my best to appease him, I tried like hell to be what he wanted me to be. But I didn't do it for him, I did it for me. The beatings only made me weaker, they caused my body to swell and hurt.

  I would never be able to escape if I was broken. I won't let him break me.

  I had already made up my mind. If I got the chance, I was going to kill him. There was no second thoughts about it. I spent a lot of time picturing all the ways I could do it, envisioning how it would go.

  Those thoughts were what kept me full, they held my hand and walked me through the days.

  I wasn't letting go of the idea to break free and take my life back; I just needed to be smarter about it. Planning, watching, learning, seeing; that's what would get me out.

  Not frantic attempts to run away, not quick judgments to do him harm that landed me in the closet with broken bones and black bruises.

  Patience. That was the key.

  Diablo would let down his guard at some point, he w
ould get comfortable with me and fuck something up. Maybe he would forget to lock the closet door, maybe he would leave me alone in a room, maybe he'd leave his gun on the table and not be paying attention to me.

  He will fuck up, and when he does, I'll be ready.

  “Over easy, Bijou, and do it right this time.” Sipping his coffee, he slurped the hot liquid with a hiss. His eyes never left my body as he sat back, taking note of my every move.

  With my back to him, my eyes kept drifting to the knife block beside the stove. Temptation was a bitch. The high glint of metal taunted me, speaking soundless words and telling me to just do it.

  Do it, Bijou. Snatch me up, cut him. He deserves it for what he's done to you.

  He's hurt you, he's touched you when you didn't want him to. He ignored your screams and yells for him to stop, and kept going.

  He deserves this; stab him, cut him, make him bleed. Show him what it means to hurt.

  Do it.

  Do it.

  A heavy thump hit the tabletop, causing me to jerk in surprise. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the black hole at the end of Diablo's gun.

  Not yet. He knows, it's like he can read my fucking mind.

  The pan sizzled, butter splattering up and tickling the tips of my fingers. Holding the spatula, my hand shook nervously as I attempted to slip it underneath one of the eggs. I did my best to stay still, to not let his loaded gun get to me.

  I failed.

  The egg popped open, spilling yellow blood into the pan. “Shit.” Whispering under my breath, I tried to quietly grab another egg to replace the one I screwed up.

  “Uh, uh, let me see.” Pushing back from the table, he walked up and looked down over my shoulder. “Shit, Bijou, you can't get anything right, can you?” Shaking his head, he wrapped his fingers around my wrist, tenderly stroking my skin. “This is number two, twice you screwed up the same thing. You know I don't like seeing the same mistake twice.” Tisking under his breath, he dropped his head into chest. “Oh, Bijou, I don't want to do this, I don't want to punish you.” Sighing heavily, Diablo's fingers thickened around my wrist, holding me tight. “This is going to hurt, my sweet jewel, I'm not going to lie. But, it's for your own good, you can't keep making these mistakes.”

  The way he said it sent my body up in flames, I was tempted to throw the hot pan in his face, allowing the butter to burn him and scar him. But that wouldn't kill him, it would only stun him for a brief moment, and then what?

  Where would I run?

  Where would I hide?

  From the corner of my eye I could see the door that led outside, and I knew I'd never reach it.

  Diablo was in my path, his broad shoulders and angry muscle blocking my exit. A gun was in his free hand, pointed directly at me. As if I was the one who was vile and evil, as if I had threatened his life. It was a fucked up feeling to be treated like you were the cause of all the darkness he had to bare.

  Don't. You won't make it out alive.

  Biting my lower lip, I knew I wasn't supposed to talk or question him. I wasn't allowed to speak unless he told me to, I wasn't allowed to look him in the eyes unless he demanded me to look; there was no freedom to have a voice of my own or the right to make decisions for myself.

  Not here, not in his world. I was just his slave.

  This time, I ignored his rules.

  “Please, Diablo, let me try it again. I'll get it right this time, I promise.” I let my eyes flutter up to his, hoping he would show me the tiniest bit of mercy today. “Please, give me a chance to fix it. It's my birthday.”

  “What was that?” Leaning his head in, he tipped his ear up. “Did you say something?” Scrunching his brows, his lips turned into a frown. Staying silent, I closed my eyes for a brief second, then opened them slowly to stare at the back of the wall. “I didn't think you did. Like I said before, Bijou, this is going to hurt.” From the corner of my eyes, I watched a devious smile slip up his face.

  Pulling my hand off the handle of the pan, he raised it up to his lips and kissed the back of my palm. “Happy birthday.”

  In one quick push, Diablo pressed my open palm into the scalding liquid, holding it in place as the heat burned my skin and the hot butter scorched the surface. There was no time for me to react, that was the last thing I expected him to do.

  My brain had been trained to think his punishments were dealt with a slap or a punch, a belt or a rope. But this. . . This was a whole new level.

  I didn't scream, I didn't call out in agony and try to yank my hand free. The pain was too much, causing my brain to shut down and my body to turn off.

  Blackness stole me away, it saved me from a moment of pure torture.

  I passed out, forgetting where I was, falling into my safe space and the world I used to know. I was walking down the street, the noon sun was beating down on the back of my neck, the fresh air was filling my chest as I inhaled.

  My mind took me from that place, it saved me and gave me something in return.

  I was home, even if it was only a dream. . . I was me again.

  It was moments like that, short glimpses of what I had waiting for me on the outside that kept me believing I could find my way home.

  Nothing—not Diablo, not the hurt or the pain—nothing would make me forget the life I would get back one day.

  Nothing.

  Because I was a fighter.

  And I planned on fighting till the end.

  I am unbreakable.

  * * * *

  One year in captivity.

  “Get up, Bijou,” he whispered softly, his voice menacing and dark. “It's time to play.” The metal clinked open and closed as he fiddled with his lighter.

  “Yes, Sir.” Standing up off the floor, I rested my arms by my sides, and kept my eyes down.

  “Do you know what I want to play today?”

  I didn't answer, he wasn't really asking me in that way. Diablo spoke to me, but it was never really to me. He spoke to himself out loud more than anything. No response was actually expected.

  “Come closer.” I stepped in. “No, Bijou, closer.” I took another small step in. His features hardened, eyes flashing that devilish glow. “You know I hate when you don't listen my sweet jewel.”

  Maybe that's why I do it. . . Just to get a rise.

  Maybe I'm just trying to postpone the pain a little longer.

  Maybe I just want to piss him off so he finally rids me of this hell.

  “Closer. Now.” Bringing myself to his side, his fingers began to draw long strokes up and down the back of my thigh.

  Don't touch me!

  Another set of words I kept to myself. A scream I had said on so many occasions, but haven't in a really long time. It did nothing. He never listened, he never stopped hitting me, he never stopped while he was violating me to the point I couldn't stop crying.

  He never allowed himself to hear me. Those words died as soon as they left my lips.

  Sipping his wine, he smiled and looked up at me. “You're tense, I don't like when you're tense.”

  Fuck you.

  Pinching the inside of my thigh, he winked. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to kick him in his balls and cut off his cock.

  Diablo was resting back in his favorite chair, the one he had brought down into an empty room beside my closet, specifically for 'us' to spend time together. I never got to see the rest of his house, confined to my closet, the kitchen, and this single room.

  There were no windows, at least none that I could see. The floor was concrete, the walls were covered in that fake wood paneling. He had taken the time to drag in a small flat screen television and a rickety end table.

  Every so often, he'd let me watch whatever stupid gangster movie he had, and I'd get to sit while he critiqued how ridiculous the portrayal of his business was.

  But I didn't really mind that part so much. I was watching something other than that asshole, that was good enough for me.

  I knew why he kept things this way, h
olding me in such solitude—it gave me no out, no weakness to prey on if a fault in the bars appeared. I only knew of one exit, the kitchen door. And he never let me out of his sight long enough to test it.

  Pulling a cigar from his pocket, he tickled it up between my legs, running it over my bare slit. Lifting it to his nose, he purred as he took in a long inhale. “Fuck that's nice.” Biting the tip off, he flipped open his lighter and held the flame close to my knee. “Can you feel that?”

  I remained still, doing my best not to look him in the eyes.

  “Answer me. Can you feel that?” Moving the dancing flame closer, I watched my skin turn from pale white into bright orange.

  Nodding, I spoke low. “Yes.”

  “It's hot, it's warm, it's magic really.” Pulling it away, he lit the end of his cigar and drew in a long puff. Holding the smoke in his mouth, wispy tendrils snaked out, working their way up my chest.

  Lifting up the lighter, he stared into the flame with a sick smile on his face. I knew what he was doing. He was taunting me, reminding me of the scar on my hand.

  He loved that scar. I wasn't sure why that scar held more meaning to him than any of the other ones he had given me. His marks were all over my body, but the scar on my palm was his cherished accomplishment.

  I could see it in his eyes, the way the flame danced over his pupils and his hand came up to clutch mine. His rough thumb rolled over the hardened skin, tracing the scarred tissue with pride in his glare.

  “I've always found fire to be an incredible thing. It lives off oxygen just like us, it needs it to survive and to thrive. Without it, it'd be nothing. . .” Pausing, he pinched the flame, watching it die. “Just like you.”

  Where is he going with this?

  Licking his palm, he stuffed the lit end of the cigar in the center. He didn't wince as it sizzled in his saliva, all he did was stare at me. Dropping the cigar to the floor, he crushed out what red embers were left with the toe of his shoe.

  His smile widened as he darted his eyes between his hand and my face. Tugging my hand out from my hip, he flipped it over, placing our palms side by side. “There, now we match. And I'll always have something to remember you with.”