Not on this boat. “Except you, in your fancy room with your music and rotating harem of pretty girls of a certain age. You’re a monster, Aaron.” Slinking out from his touch, she skittered back. “I don’t ever want to talk to you again. I don’t even want to look at you.”
Standing tall, he sighed. As if he was the one hurting and she was the one causing it. “You’ll come to accept it. They all do.”
He walked away, leaving her as she was—because they both knew she wasn’t going to throw herself over that railing—Eugenia screaming at his back, “When I get off this boat, I won’t ever come back!”
***
Ironically forced to dress in the same outfit from that first, awful night—the naughty schoolgirl—Eugenia prepared Table #2. Stacking the pile of linen to the side for the men to shoot their load into. Grasping why they never complained about not finishing in the girls.
Because it would break their fancy toy if that human got pregnant. After all, everyone went to Level 9, and they’d have their shot later.
And they all knew it when they teased, kissed, adored, fucked, and offered for Level 15 girls.
They weren’t straight evil. The captain was. And she could see how some of them had hinted. But who could doubt for a minute that outright spilling the beans about Level 9 led to instant execution?
Couldn’t upset this well-oiled machine of mind games and carnival tickets, now could they?
Fuck up the party if the party girls realized the ride never ended.
So, what was down there? Women chained to beds? Is that why he liked to tie the other girls up? Get them accustomed to it.
What did the men trade for the opportunity to breed an entire cycle?
Five-thousand tickets? Five-hundred thousand?
Whatever Brooke had just survived might make that woman go mad if a man tried to touch her. Maybe the captain’s version of acceptance was just a bunch of broken shells with functioning wombs and severe psychological trauma.
Brooke was in bad shape.
She limped like the dying limped.
But stranded on Level 15, Eugenia couldn’t help her. Spending her hour analyzing a gait she’d seen only once from hundreds of feet away.
Remembering that scream for help.
Knowing she was being mocked all the time by the captain. The only person on that whole fucking ship who had been her “friend.”
God, she was an idiot.
The things she had told Aaron in their daily banter.
The ways he would have to suffer before he died.
Did the men all laugh at her below deck? The fallen virgin who thought she was so damn smart? Who they all knew would end up as some kind of breeder on Level 9 no matter how long she held out.
Who they indulged.
Men she knew. Who she’d conversed with for months. Men who sat at her table that very night as she brushed lint from the white tablecloth. Men who presented their cookie sheets for her to sit on. Who bantered and dined on ribeye, just like that first night.
There hadn’t been ribeye since…
Not that it mattered. Twenty-million-plus tickets she owed. Ten fucks a night, she might get off the ship in two years. Walk south and never stop walking. Never stop.
Ever.
The man with his hand splayed on her belly, who served as her chair, said, “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Are you okay?”
On no level was she okay. “I’m just doing some math… a bit stuck on the numbers.”
How many plates had she broken? How many extra fucks had she added to her tally?
If she could convince ten of them to fuck her a night, how many nights would that be? There were only five men at her table, so she’d have to draw the other men, get competitive over tickets. Would ten men even want to fuck her every day, or would she look as worn out as Chloe? Who was no doubt going to be transitioned to Level 9… because she’d almost earned enough by whoring the hardest.
That was why Chloe had put glass shards in Juanita’s food her first night. Fresh and pretty competition extended this hell. And that’s why Juanita was warned about the glass, just like Eugenia had been—Captain’s orders, no doubt.
That’s what affected their price. How much ride the captain thought he could get out of all of them.
“You look pale, Eugenia.”
The things she had confided in these men. Her history. Her achievements and blunders. Funny childhood stories and the names of her dead parents. Despite never intending to, she had connected with them on an extremely fucked-up level.
And they were all in on it.
She meant to answer with something canned. A general “I’m fine.” But her eyes finally lifted from that tablecloth… and it wasn’t her guests she saw.
It was John.
Perched at Table #6. Having fun as he lined up for a turn. He laughed, though didn’t engage in the banter.
He didn’t have a tongue. The captain had told her so.
She wasn’t sure how she got there, or why she thought a goddamn cookie sheet would serve to kill him. The drag on each swing—thanks to the shape of her chosen weapon—slowed down momentum and reduced impact.
Not that it mattered when sanity had fled. Beating him with all she had, she screamed that she’d kill him for doing this to her. Turning the cookie sheet to its side when it clicked that it would be far more effective to reduce wind resistance.
Going straight for the throat.
Six months!
She’d been on the ship at least six months for him to have earned his way up to Level 15.
When his fist landed in her gut, when he took her down like a linebacker to steal the rest of her air, she refused to let him steal the rest of her life.
Rage fortified. Claws going for the eyes.
Men tried to pull them apart. There was a great deal of shouting when she tore an eyelid.
When she bit back.
“I’ll fucking kill you, John! You’re a dead man!” It took at least three burly men to tear her from her prey. “Don’t think you can hide behind the boys. I’ll find you, you coward! I SAVED YOUR LIFE AND YOU SOLD ME TO MONSTERS!”
One of many who had grappled her to the floor lost a grip and earned a broken nose for it. “Christ, she’s strong, Captain!”
But she didn’t care. Her attention was laser-focused on a boy held back, who was also bleeding, but who was not fighting for freedom. Because he felt safe being male, and she was just a dumb whore.
“You’ll die, John. I’ll see it through!”
Her line of sight was spoiled by an all too familiar face, a person who dared say, “Don’t look at him. Look at me. Hear what I’m saying to you, Eugenia. If you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to calm you down. And I’m asking you not to make me do that.”
Fuck all of it! “Aaron, I can’t do this anymore.” Tears, desperation. All the things she’d kept in. “I can’t.”
Gaze so heavy she’d rather carry a thousand tons, he murmured, “Take a deep breath for me.”
She did, one that shook all the way into her aching ribs. And then another one. And another. Until she stopped fighting and the men cautiously let her go.
Not that she hesitated to slap off their arms as if it made any difference.
Looking down at herself. At her stupid outfit and the way her tits were held back with nothing but a couple buttons. The front of a silly shirt tied under her bosom, midriff on display.