Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
This suggested that there would be a certain degree of freedom because the man didn’t just want a slave in his bedroom but wanted the appearance of legitimacy and normalcy that having a wife suggested.
I might be expected to have children by him. I’d heard he was American and that meant I might get off this continent. I’d get away from them, the ones who broke me, who took the person I was and crushed her into dust.
It also meant an extreme amount of responsibility. To hit this level of elite meant that I was expected to be perfection: Kruna personified. I’d represent him to the world. I’d represent Kruna to him. I didn’t know if he was attractive, ugly, psychotic, abusive, or what sexual tastes he would have. All I knew was that I couldn’t screw up.
All of what he was and what my life would be would reveal itself over the coming days. I knew that being sold to become a wife was a level of elite that some women here aspired to, that most feared due to the level of responsibility, but that precious few actually got. It would be as close to normal as normal could get for us. I’d hit the slave girl jackpot for all intents and purposes. There had only been six in all of Kruna history, which dated back to the early 1970s, that became wives, only thirty-six that had been sold. I would be the seventh wife, thirty-seventh slave sold.
I also knew what it did not mean. It did not mean life like it had resembled just over two years ago when I went to Thailand and bought myself trouble like I’d never imagined in my worst nightmares. The girl I was back then? The fun-loving, fearless girl who loved to drive fast, loved loud music, partying, raves, mechanical bull-riding, playing ice hockey, and roller derby? The girl who wasn’t afraid to express her opinions and tell people where to go? She was gone. I’d shed that skin and become someone else because that was what needed to happen in order for me to survive.
Since I’d been here, I’d seen girls survive and I’d seen some who did not. I’d also seen that one girl who’d left a few years earlier to become slave number thirty-four get returned when her Master died. She committed suicide three days after coming back. From her story I knew I had to try to get out. What she’d found on the other side probably wasn’t exactly bliss, but compared to Kruna it had been for her. So much so that being brought back here was worse than death.
I aspired to achieve whatever might be on the other side, even if it might not be bliss. It was something to hold onto and so that’s what I’d worked at. I went on autopilot to do what needed to be done and I’d succeeded. I was about to face the best-case scenario. Marriage.
But I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy because although I’d achieved my goal it didn’t mean I was lucky. I’d soon find out just how lucky or unlucky I was. It didn’t mean I’d be happy or free.
And this only happened because Mr. Frost died. If he were still here, I might not still be here; I might be dead by now. If he were still here, he’d never have let me leave this place. He told me that daily. But fate was kind enough to take him from my life and now I was looking at Point C.
Succeeding in being sold also didn’t even mean I’d never, ever see Kruna again, either, because I knew guests and partners who visited often brought their slaves with them. It just meant a different kind of prison from what I had right now and I didn’t know if it’d be better or if it’d be worse, but I knew it was away from here and that was precisely what I had been working toward because that was the only thing I could do, the only hope I had.
I waited until my Master addressed me. It felt like it took a long time for that to happen. I wished I knew what role to play. Did I look up coquettishly? Should I give off a persona of innocence? I didn’t know what he wanted. He was standing in front of me, but I knew better than to make eye contact before being permitted.
“Felicia,” he finally said.
I looked up with what I hoped was a blank expression and saw him for the first time.
He was young. Under thirty. He was dressed in a light gray suit with a cream-colored shirt and no tie. He had wavy blond hair, longish, almost to his collar, flopping over one eye. Bluish grey eyes, full lips, tanned skin, and he looked tall from this angle. He was male model gorgeous and wore that suit well.