“So, deal with it,” Blackwood snaps at him. “Carefully. Damaged goods are worth considerably less.”
They spread out, aiming to surround me. These aren’t random thugs; they’re professionals who have done this before.
I feint left, then dive right, slashing wildly with my knife. The blade catches one of them across the forearm, drawing a line of blood, but he barely flinches.
“Feisty,” he comments, blood dripping from his arm. “The buyers like that.”
“I am not livestock!” I scream, striking out again. “I am not for sale!”
“Everyone’s for sale,” Andrew says with cold detachment. “It’s just a matter of price.”
Hearing him say this breaks something fundamental inside me. This is the man who told me I was beautiful. Who promised me forever. Who made me believe I was worth loving.
The firs
