4. THE ATTACK

LUNA

“Why aren’t you fighting?”

I could tell him about a hundred moments where I fought and failed. I could tell him about the hundred attempts where my voice was cut off, and my hands were restrained. I could tell him about all the times I fought, and fought, and fought just to lose before a man.

I could tell him many such things, but he would hardly understand any of it.

I still didn’t look at his face. But actions are enough to judge a man. And the deep voice is a beast.

My fingers itched to tug the fabric around my neck.

I want to breathe.

I felt his eyes on me, watching me, scanning me. So I held my hands in my laps, ignoring the sting on my wrists, the ropes left.

Instead of answering, I observed the room around me.

A velvet bed, heavy curtains, and a gilded mirror filled the room. It was dressed to look elegant, but no amount of expensive furniture could hide the lingering scent of perfume, cigarettes, and misery.

The man abruptly got up and my body scooted back involuntarily. My fight or flight response kicked in, and my mind chose the latter.

I heard a hum again.

He is clearly enjoying reminding me how small I was.

All because I am a woman.

“It’s a good thing you are not fighting.” He took a step back.

One.

Two.

Three.

“Get her dressed. Can’t keep Colton waiting.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the two women approached me.

Neither of them looked at me with cruelty.

That somehow made it worse.

One untied my legs while the other carried a bundle of clothes over her arm.

"Stand."

I didn't.

A slap wasn't what I expected. It wasn't hard.

Just enough to remind me that I didn't have a choice.

They peeled the torn blue dress from my body and replaced it with something that barely deserved to be called one.

Black.

Silk.

Thin straps.

A neckline that plunged far lower than anything I had ever been allowed to wear.

The hem stopped halfway down my thighs.

"No..." I whispered, clutching at the fabric.

The older woman gently pulled my hands away.

"Don't make this harder."

Harder for whom?

For them?

Or for the girl being stripped of every ounce of dignity she had left?

One of them brushed makeup across my face. Darker eyes. Red lips. Powder to hide the tear stains.

Every stroke felt less like makeup and more like another layer of someone I wasn't.

I stared at my reflection.

I looked like every rumour they had ever spread about me.

The girl who ran away.

The girl who slept around.

The girl they called a whore.

Funny.

I had spent nineteen years covering my neck, my arms, my legs—told that modesty protected a woman's honour.

Now strangers uncovered me in less than five minutes.

So that's all honour was.

A piece of fabric.

A man decides whether you wear too much of it or too little.

Either way...

He decides.

They led me out into a dimly lit hall.

Women stood in a neat line against the wall.

They were all smirking and laughing at me.

I wondered if they had any ounce of humanity left in them. Why are they happy? Why aren’t they helping another girl?

"Stand there."

I obeyed.

Not because I wanted to.

Because surviving had taught me that sometimes you waited for the right moment.

A phone was raised.

My stomach dropped.

"No..."

The flash exploded.

White light swallowed the room for a second.

When my vision cleared, I understood.

The picture wasn't for customers.

It was for my father.

Look.

Your daughter.

The girl you guarded like treasure.

The girl you hid behind gates and guards.

Look how easily we turned her into this.

Heat crawled beneath my skin.

Humiliation burned hotter than fear.

If I had been born a boy, they would have beaten me. Shot me. Broken a few bones.

Instead...

They dressed me up.

Displayed me.

Because nothing wounded a daughter of a mafia boss more than stealing the one thing men believed belonged to them.

Her dignity.

They weren't looking down on me because I was Colton's daughter.

They were looking down on me because I was a girl.

And somehow, that feels even worse.

I was thrown into the earlier room when they were done with me.

Someone give me a coat. A jacket or shirt. Please, I need to cover myself.

Please.

Please.

Please.

Help.

Someone.

Anyone.

Remi.

Remi.

Remi.

He is dead. No one is coming to save me. When my father gets the photo, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me either.

I wiped my tears and scanned through the room. There is nothing here I can use as a weapon. Nothing.

The only thing I can find is a mascara. Just a mascara and nothing.

I twisted it open anyway, studying the pointed plastic wand. If someone came close enough...

A knock echoed through the room. My heart stopped.

The handle turned.

Slowly.

I backed away until my calves hit the edge of the bed.

The door creaked open. A man stumbled inside, reeking of alcohol.

His shirt hung open, expensive watch glinting beneath the dim light. His eyes roamed over me in a way that made my skin crawl.

"No..." I whispered.

He smiled.

"Don't look so scared."

Another step.

I raised the mascara in front of me.

He laughed.

"Planning to kill me with makeup?"

One more step.

I swung.

The plastic scraped across his cheek, leaving nothing more than a thin red line. I was aiming for his eyes and fucking missed.

Then he caught my wrist.

Pain exploded through my arm.

The mascara clattered onto the floor.

"I like fighters," he murmured.

I didn't think.

I bit him.

Hard.

He swore and shoved me backwards.

The back of my knees slammed against the bed, and I fell onto the mattress.

He reached for me again. A gunshot shattered the room.

The man froze.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

Then blood bloomed across his white shirt.

His body crumpled onto the floor.

Silence.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the doorway.

Slow.

Steady.

Deliberate.

The same footsteps. Amber eyes. Deep voice.

He lowered the pistol as though shooting a man was no more troublesome than swatting a fly.

His gaze drifted from the corpse...

...to me.

Still sitting on the bed.

Still shaking.

Still clutching the air where the mascara had been.

His jaw tightened.

"I gave one order," he said, his voice colder than the gun in his hand.

No one answered.

“I said she wasn't for sale.” He barked.

Sale? Like, I am an object and not a human being.

A woman appeared in the hallway, pale as death.

"I-I thought he had permission—"

"Get out."

She disappeared without another word.

He stepped over the dead body and shrugged off his black coat.

Without asking, he draped it over my shoulders.

The fabric swallowed me whole.

Warm.

Heavy.

Safe.

I hated that it felt safe.

He bent down and lifted me into his arms as though I weighed nothing.

My body tensed. The corridors of The Raven blurred past.

Heads lowered as we passed.

No one dared to stop him. No one even looked him in the eye.

The night air struck my face as we stepped outside.

For the first time since my kidnapping, I saw the sky.

Dark.

Endless.

Free.

A black car waited by the entrance.

He opened the rear door with one hand and set me inside.

I stared at him.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, a different fear settled into my bones.