Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 152710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
“Anyone who sees that,” he continues, “will think twice about kidnapping you in the future.”
“Why? What will be different next time?”
The hum of the machine starts up.
“One, I made an example of the ones who were stupid enough to try, and two, everyone in Johannesburg now knows nobody messes with what’s mine.”
Unwanted tears leak from my eyes as the first sting penetrates my skin. It’s not painful enough to warrant tears, but my tears are not for the physical pain. My tears are for how far Damian will go to keep me, and that I love him, nonetheless.
Damian sits with me for the two hours it takes, not once letting go of my hand. When the tattooist finally pulls away to admire his work, my flesh feels a little bruised. He looks at Damian, who nods. I’m about to push up from the bed, but Damian clamps his hand around my nape, keeping me face down with my cheek on the mattress.
“Not done yet,” he says.
I strain my eyes to look back at the man. Coldness engulfs me. He’s filling a hypodermic needle from a vial.
I start to struggle. “What’s he doing?”
Damian easily constrains me by pinning my arms at my sides. “Shh. Relax. It’s not drugs.”
My voice rises hysterically. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Calm down. It’s just a local anesthetic.”
“Why?”
While Damian holds me down, the man injects the needle in the fleshy part of my good shoulder. I battle to breathe as fear runs hot and cold up my spine.
After a moment, the man prods me with the needle somewhere at the base of my neck.
“Do you feel a prick?” he asks.
“N-no.” Should I?
“It’s all right.” Damian kisses my temple. “We gave you a shot so it doesn’t hurt.”
“So what doesn’t hurt?” I cry, nearly hysterical again.
When the man brings a thick needle to my neck, I start fighting in all earnest.
“Keep still,” Damian hisses. “If he hits a nerve you can be injured.”
I freeze at the proclamation, crying silently. There’s more prodding, but I don’t feel pain, not even when a thin trickle of blood drips down my neck onto the plastic sheet.
“Doesn’t need stitches,” the man says. “I only made a small incision. The glue is sufficient. Keep it disinfected, though.”
When Damian lets up, I gather the man’s work, whatever it was, is done.
While he sterilizes and packs away his equipment, Damian secures the towel around my breasts by folding one end over the other before helping me sit up and discarding the plastic sheet.
He brings a glass of water to my lips. “Drink. It’s for the shock.”
Too numb to argue, I drink it all. It tastes sweet. Why do people always give me sweet drinks when I’ve suffered a shock?
The man lifts his case. “I’ll see you around.”
Damian shakes his hand and says he’ll see him out.
Swinging my legs from the bed, I try to look at what has been tattooed on my shoulder, but my neck hurts too much to turn. I clutch the towel to my breasts and walk to the dressing room for a better look in the mirror. The ink on my shoulder is the size of a coaster. A falcon’s head peers back at me. In the background is a diamond, sketched three-dimensional, and at the bottom the initials, DH. Damian’s business logo. It’s right next to my armpit. The tattoo will be visible under any sleeveless piece of clothing, a clear statement for all to see. As I’m lifting my hair to inspect the small cut at the base of my neck, Damian enters.
I rub a finger over the bump under my skin that sits just above the cut. “What have you done to me?”
Crossing his arms, he leans against the doorframe. “It’s a tracker.”
I’ve seen it done to dogs and cats, but never to a human. Clenching my fists, I bite back fresh tears.
“I’m not losing you again, Lina. Ever.”
“Which one is the punishment?” I snap, on the brink of shedding those tears I swore I wouldn’t.
“Both,” he replies, unflinching. “I said it before, and I’ll keep on saying it. You get to choose.”
A ringtone fills the room. He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the screen. “Excuse me. I have to take this. Go back to bed. You haven’t rested nearly enough.”
Walking away, he leaves me in front of the mirror with my new tokens of ownership. Where the ring was a statement of kindness, designed to spare me humiliation, the tattoo seems the opposite. His words stay with me as I flop down on my stomach on the bed.
You get to choose.
There’s no way around it. I chose him when I confronted Harold. The knowledge is mine. Damian doesn’t know. I can pretend it didn’t happen, but that won’t make the truth vanish. I already sacrificed my freedom, even before Damian put his logo on my shoulder and a microchip under my skin. I may as well admit it.