Father never grieved mother’s death, and I wasn’t allowed to either. Deveroughs, he said, are strong. They push through. They don’t show weakness. Chin up, Evie, put a goddamn smile on your face, and face the world with strength.
Weakness?
Grieving for my mother showed weakness?
From that day forward, I hated my father. He never held me in his arms—that showed weakness. He never told me things would get better—that fed weakness. Most importantly, he never told me he loved me.
Because love is weakness?
I never understood that.
I learned to bury my emotions and face the world with a gracious smile. Those are the lessons I lean on now. I become what’s expected: pretty, delicate, and invisible.
When I peer into the faces of the other girls, they look back with emotion hemorrhaging out of their eyes. That’s their first mistake. For some, it will prove fatal.
Either they plead with me, thinking I can somehow change their fate. As if that kind of power is at my disposal. It’s not, and it kills me every time I see that hopelessness in their eyes. My gut churns with the injustice of it all. If they’re not pleading, they rage at me with fury and outrage as they see me walking free.
As if I truly am an honored guest.
They see no shackles, no cuffs, no rope leads attached to my neck. My body is free from lash marks, cuts, or bruises. My face remains fair and unmarked. I’m allowed clothing where they are not, but most importantly, they see me walking free.
But I’m still a prisoner.
Those girls hate me, but they don’t know the truth. I’m as much a victim as they are. The only difference between them and me is my torment is coming.
Until then, I wrap myself in my emotional armor where nothing can touch me. I hold my head high, dignified, but I’m really terrified and frightened for the day when I do become one of them. My emotions are on strict lockdown, buried so deep I appear as cold-hearted as the monster who holds me captive.
I glide through arched doorways with wrought iron gates designed to let breezes flow through. Hot and humid air rushes through the courtyards. Most of this place is open to the outdoors. High, arched ceilings allow heat to rise but do nothing to ease the oppressiveness of the tropical heat.
The open-air concept of the compound, affectionately called The Retreat by its master, lends a sense of serenity to the air, although I’m not fooled. This may look like a paradise, with wealth and opulence dripping down the walls, but it’s a devil’s oasis with Lucifer himself ruling from his gilded throne.
My unease intensifies as I approach one of the open-aired courtyards capped off with a ceiling to keep out the monsoon rains. The deep rumble of male voices is indistinct. I can’t make out any of their words but come to a halt when I hear a softer, desperate cry layered on top.
I harden myself against whatever madness this might be and brace to endure the next few hours.
Last week’s previous guests are gone. Mr. H with his hungry leers departed with his newest slave. Mr. J took two girls with him. I didn’t keep track of the rest of the guests, but the girls they bid upon are all gone now. New ones will take their place. I may be one of them if what Benefield said is true.
I both like and hate the break when the guests aren’t here. I hate the men who descend upon The Retreat with the sole intent of ruining a life to feed their carnal desires, but I love the emptiness when they leave.
For a moment, I breathe easier. Not that I lower my guard. The time between guests is a time of training, something I’ve been spared, but I have a feeling that will change.
Is this the day? Is that why I’ve been summoned?
My father still has time to respond to the latest ransom demand. Maybe this time, Benefield will let me go?
Can he afford to let me go?
I’ve seen too much. I know too much.
The voices of the men grow louder, more boisterous, as I step up the pace. No guard trails behind me. Not that there’s a need. There’s literally nowhere to run. The absence of a guard is more telling than anything else. Benefield no longer fears I’ll try and escape.
Located inland from the coast, what I remember from that terrible ride that brought me here were tropical plains with large estates, cattle by the hundreds, and oil fields. I haven’t seen beyond the walls of this place, but we’re surrounded by a lush tropical jungle. It feels as if we’re at the end of the world, forgotten by the rest of humanity.
Although there’s no guard, my progress is meticulously tracked and reported by the guards stationed at every door and every gate. Benefield does this on purpose, giving me the illusion of freedom within the walls of his estate, but always beneath the watchful eyes of his men who report everything directly to him.
My unsteady steps guide me under an arching hallway and down a long hall. As I draw near the courtyard, my painted lips curve into a soft, gentle smile. It’s the only armor I’m allowed, and I need every bit of that added strength.
I turn the corner and my hand flies to cover my mouth as I swallow a strangled scream.
Benefield wants a reaction, and I deliver right on cue.
I plant my heels on the hard travertine stone and come to an abrupt stop. My mouth gapes and my smile falls away on a tattered scream.
The potent stench of male body odor floods my nostrils, but layered on top of that is the coppery tang of fresh blood.
Lots and lots of blood.
Guards line the walls, weapons held in steady hands. They cheer and shout as two men attack each other in the middle of the room.
More of a covered courtyard than a room, the floor slopes gently toward the center, where red rivulets of blood slowly make their way down a drain set in the lowest part of the floor.
Beside the drain, a sturdy iron pillar rises ten feet in the air. A rope loops through a ring at the top and ends on a pair of iron cuffs attached to a naked girl’s wrists.
A gag covers her mouth, stifling her screams. Blood splatter coats most of her body, but it doesn’t belong to her. It belongs to one, or both, of the men engaged in a deadly battle in front of her. They hold long, curved blades in their right hands and circle each other with menacing scowls.
Blood streams down their bodies. Deep cuts across their chest, arms, bellies, and thighs pour crimson down to the floor. It’s more blood than I’ve ever seen. One of the men slips on the sticky substance, unsteady as he shakes sweat out of his eyes. His opponent takes the opportunity to lunge forward, knife arm raised to slash, maim, and kill.
“Ah, Evelyn…” Tomas Benefield calls out from the far side of the room. He sits on a dais—his throne in this miserable place. “Come here, girl.” He cups his hand and raises his voice. “Step aside and let my dearest pass.”
My shoulders lift to my ears with his use of my dearest, but I quickly school my features and reaffix the smile to my face.
The fighters break apart. They take two steps back and to the side. The guards lining the walls go silent as I gather the silken fabric of my gown and lift it above the blood soaking the floor.
Minding where I step, I try to navigate a safe path around the blood, but there’s too much to avoid it all. In stoic silence, I stroll, with as much dignity as I can muster, all the way across the room where Benefield waits for me on his throne.
Six
Max