Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Missy walks into the room, stopping short at the entrance. She’s been here longer than I have. She once told me she arrived here at a much younger age. The man who purchased her from the auction is good to her. I’m pretty sure she’s in love with him. He is handsome, I can’t deny it, but he is dangerous. She told me he’s French royalty, or something like that. But I haven’t been here long enough to know if it’s true. The one thing I know is, he’s prone to violence. Even though he’s never struck one of us, he’s still issued threats that force us to obey.
“The party is about to start,” she tells me. “The guests are all in the living room.” Her American accent is a gentle reminder that the girls who come to these parties, as the men call it, are from all over the world. It’s not just one targeted country.
“Do I look okay?” I turn to her, waiting for her to assess the outfit. We’ve become close friends, and I’m thankful for that.
The home I was in before coming here was hell. They kept us in our rooms twenty-four seven, and even then, we were bound. There was enough leeway to move to the bathroom if we needed it, but we could never leave.
Missy comes to me and offers a smile. “You’re beautiful,” she tells me. It’s something we remind each other of daily.
When you’re here, as a possession, it’s not the same as having a normal life. We’re constantly told we’re nothing more than pets.
“Are the boys coming too?” I ask, curious to see her reaction.
A blush creeps up onto her cheeks at the mention of the twins, and she smiles. “Yes.”
The twins—who arrived at the same time as Missy—are confident, handsome, and they only have eyes for her. Since she and I have grown close, they’ve accepted me as part of their friendship circle.
“Good,” I say with a nod. I feel better when we’re all together.
Even though these men outnumber us, there’s a sense of security having my friends there. We hold hands as we make our way out of my room and down the hall. The house is old, enormous, with countless rooms. Expensive art hangs on the walls, mostly portraits of people from centuries ago. The smooth wooden floors have been varnished to shine, while the accents of gold and copper shimmer. Plants flourish the interior, offering a homely feel to the house, and from every window, there’s a view of lush green hills. It’s almost like being in paradise, but under the beautiful veneer, it’s nothing more than a gilded prison.
“There they are,” one twin, Josh, says.
The other twin, Jacques, walks up to us and smiles. I learnt early on that his name is James, but because our owner prefers his pets to have alternative names for their new lives, he changed it to something more fitting with where they are now. He gave Josh the name Josué, but he never uses it. He refuses to be anything other than Josh to us.
“Are we ready?” A deep French accent comes from the threshold to the lounge.
The butler, who we only know as Louis, steps up to us with the four leashes and collars in hand. He first collars the lads, then, he comes towards me. Lifting my hair, I wait for the soft leather to encircle my neck.
Missy is last, and then, we’re led like dogs into a room where we find the men who have been here repeatedly over the few months since I arrived. All of them are dressed in their best tailored suits. Some in black and others in navy blue, all with crisp white shirts and ties that pop against the stark colours of their jackets.
Andre Laurent, our owner, smiles when he sees us. Our black outfits—that barely cover anything at all—clearly please him. The butler takes us to him. Without a word, Louis hands over the leashes and leaves us with the men.
I’m not sure what celebration it is tonight. It’s nearing Christmas, which is in a few days. I used to love the festive season, but it’s become something of a nightmare, and I no longer want to think about the good times. It’s as if they were merely a dream, and the nightmare is real.
“Gentlemen,” Andre says, calling attention to us. “I’m sure you remember my sweet pets,” he tells the guests. “Since the end of the Savage regime, I’ve slowly taken over and changed how things are run. Volkov may want things to be different in Russia, but I don’t agree with his practices.”
“You’re going against the Bratva?” One man looks shocked at this, and I can’t deny the mention of the Russian mafia doesn’t instil me with calm.
“I am taking a stance,” he says. “We have people watching us. The FBI are closing in on the Russians. I haven’t told them because I want their business.”