When I wake up, I’m in my panties and tank top in a cage. It’s a large, wire cage, like a big dog kennel in a dimly lit room that smells dank and earthy. Like we’re in a cellar. Fear shoots through me and brings me out of my drugged haze as I remember what happened. I try to sit up and bang my head on the top of my prison.
I groan and blink my eyes, trying to get my surroundings as my brain struggles to catch up.
That’s when I realize I’m not alone. There’s a cage beside mine and—oh my God—there’s another woman in it. She’s thin and pale. Her blonde hair’s a matted mess. She puts a finger to her lips in warning.
Fresh fear pumps through my veins, but my rational side is encouraged. I’m not alone. And if this woman’s here, too, that means immediate death is probably not in my future. Bec
