Mors

4

I blinked my eyes open, a groan escaping my lips as I tried to sit up. My bones felt like they were trying to grind their way out of my skin, and a dull ache radiated from every joint. I winced, the unfamiliar scent of rot and dampness filling my nostrils. The air was thick, suffocating. I wrinkled my nose, forced to breathe through my mouth to avoid the stench.

A chilling clatter of chains echoed through the silent cell as I shifted my legs. They went all out, didn't they? I thought bitterly. They’d chained me to the wall like a rabid animal, as if a simple locked door wasn’t enough. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I’ve always been terrified of the dark; my imagination running wild with the thought of monsters lurking just beyond the reach of the light. Now, I was in the clutches of a real monster—a man who had put all those shadowy fears to shame.

Regret, sharp and bitter, sliced through me. Why did I ever agree to go to that club? I should have just stayed home and wallowed in my own pathetic pity party. If I had, I’d be sleeping safely on my outrageously expensive, soft-as-a-cloud sheets. I’d only gotten to sleep on them once. My poor sheets. Who would get to enjoy them now? The thought made my heart ache. I'd splurged on them, the kind of money that should have gone toward rent, but they felt like heaven, especially with my new mattress.

I just hoped Oralee, my best friend, didn’t use them for one of her “baby girl” get-togethers.

Stop thinking about the sheets, Eve! I scolded myself. Focus on how to escape so you can sleep on them again. From the feel of this cold, unforgiving floor, I knew if I didn't get out, this would be my new reality. My joints were already screaming in protest, and I was only twenty-four. I swore I’d aged twenty years since being locked in this hellhole. My skin probably looked like wrinkled parchment.

God, dammit, stop freaking out and start thinking! I screamed at my own reflection in the darkness. Panicking was a waste of precious time. The more I thought about a plan, the less I'd focus on my panic.

I let out a small yelp when something soft and cold brushed against my toes. Great. I had company. Mr. Rat had finally decided to introduce himself. Nice to meet you too, Mr. Rat, I thought, a weird, detached laugh threatening to bubble up. Now, if you don't mind, please don't nibble on my feet. It's rude.

I snorted to myself. I had to be going crazy. I tried to calculate how long I’d been here, but my mind was too foggy to count. It had to be at least two or three days based on the meager portions of dry bread and water they’d been giving me. I knew for a fact that if I stayed here for a week, my mind would shatter.

Oralee, darling, please come to my rescue! I pleaded internally. You're the only one who cares. A fresh wave of tears stung my eyes. I'd do anything for her to save me. I'd clean her house, wash her clothes, be her slave for life. I would even... I wouldn't think about that. She was my only comfort since I'd run away from home. She found me on the streets, starving and alone, a step away from death. She took me in, fed me, and when she tasted my cooking, she used her connections to get me a job at a five-star hotel.

I had no professional degree, but she vouched for me. I had to pass a test, though—create a new dish for the main chef. I’d made my mother’s special recipe, and he hired me on the spot as his assistant. All the credit went to my mom. Her cooking could put any five-star chef to shame.

Tears sprang from my eyes again. How I wish it was me who had died instead of her.

Focus, Eve, focus! I commanded myself again, the internal monologue my only anchor. You can have your pity party later. First, you have to find a way out.

"Hello?" I whispered, my voice a shaky, timid sound in the oppressive silence. It bounced off the stone walls, sounding creepy and hollow, like a ghost. I cleared my throat and tried again.

"Hello?" I said a little louder, my voice still trembling but less like a ghost and more like a terrified cat. Still, no answer. The silence was absolute, save for the echo of my own voice. It seemed I was completely alone in this dark cell, with only my thoughts and the local rat family for company. The thought that they might not wait for me to die before starting their feast sent a cold shiver down my spine.

Suddenly, a metallic clang echoed down the hallway. It sounded like the grating protest of an old lock turning. I pressed myself against the cold stone wall, holding my breath. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, approached. A beam of light from the hallway hit the floor, slowly crawling towards my cell door. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild drumbeat of pure terror.

The footsteps stopped directly in front of my cell. The light now illuminated a pair of expensive, polished black shoes, then black dress pants, an expensive belt, and a perfectly tailored jacket. My gaze traveled up his form, past the intricate tattoos on his hands and the gold rings, to the strong column of his neck also adorned with black ink. I knew who it was even before I saw his face.

My eyes finally settled on his jaw—rough with stubble—and his soft-looking lips, which were a stark contrast to the rest of his dangerous presence. His nose was straight but with a slight, almost imperceptible crookedness. Yet again, his face was obscured by the shadow of his hat. I could feel his cold, calculating stare on me, even though I couldn't see his eyes. He stood there, a grim reaper waiting to claim my soul.

“Get up.” The words were a low command, and my body reacted on its own, jumping to its feet before my brain could even process the words. I was horrified by my own obedience. He had that kind of voice, one that demanded complete control, and my body had surrendered to it without my consent.

"You have two options now,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, yet it made my whole body tremble. At least I hadn't peed myself. That would be a new level of embarrassment.

"What?" I asked, my voice a shaky whisper. His lips twisted into a dangerous smirk, and I knew then that both options would lead to a slow, painful doom.

"Either you work for me, or you work in my club as a w***e, pleasing every man who asks for your service," he stated bluntly. Tears sprang to my eyes. The first option was a complete unknown, but the second was a living nightmare. I knew those men would use and abuse me until there was nothing left. Working for him was a gamble, a jump into a different kind of darkness.

"I don't have time to waste on you. Either you choose in the next five seconds, or I'll choose for you," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. The gears in my brain spun frantically. I knew he wouldn't tell me what the job entailed. Both choices were terrible, but one seemed less immediately fatal.

"I'll work for you," I said, the words barely audible. And just like that, I knew I had made the worst possible choice. The smirk on his face widened into a cruel, triumphant grin, and regret washed over me like a tidal wave. But it was too late. I had walked right into his trap, and now there was no way out.

~•~