Emma woke at 6:03 a.m. on the exact anniversary. The house was still dark except for the soft blue glow of the baby monitor on Mark’s side of the bed. One year. Exactly one year since the night she’d first walked into that cheap motel room and let three strangers turn her into this into *this*.
Her body still carried the evidence. The belly was lower now, heavier, the dark line across it a permanent souvenir. Her t**s had ballooned into two massive, veiny, milk-heavy balloons that leaked steadily through the thin tank top she’d slept in. The two thick black plugs were still in from last night deep, locked, keeping everything warm and full. The new black silicone ring on her finger matched the collar perfectly, cold against her skin.
She didn’t wake Mark. She never did. She slipped out of
