Blood Roses and Broken Chains - Chapter 7

Then she heard it.

The measured thud of boots on concrete, each step drawing closer through the plastic curtain.

Elishia’s breath caught in her throat.

Is it… my turn?

She lifted her head slowly, her neck stiff from hours of keeping it bowed.

The holding room, once filled with the huddled forms of other girls, had thinned out dramatically until there was no one left. The concrete floor stretched wider now, marked only by the faint impressions where bodies had pressed against it.

Was she the last one?

The footsteps grew louder. Closer. Deliberate.

Her thoughts spun out, jagged and endless, like broken glass tumbling through her mind.

What’s waiting for me out there? Will I be dragged out and stood on that platform too? Will they strip me? Display me like some broken thing? Will they sell me to some pot-bellied old man? Or someone worse? Someone with no face and no name and no limits?

Her stomach churned, acid burning the back of her throat.

Then came the other thoughts—the quieter, sadder ones.

Will Jennie notice I’m gone?

She probably thinks I overslept again. Missed our morning shift.

What about Professor Haim? He always said I had “too much edge to vanish quietly.” Will he notice my empty seat in Advanced Literature? Will he call attendance and pause when no one answers for me?

Will anyone file a missing person report?

Will they even know where to start looking?

The questions multiplied like cancer cells, each one spawning two more. How long before they give up? How long before I become just another statistic, another face on a milk carton nobody reads?

Her head began to spin again, but before the spiral could drag her under—

A shadow fell over her.

Large. Solid. Blocking the overhead light like an eclipse.

Her pulse froze.

She didn’t have to look.

She knew.

Mark.

She didn’t move.

She barely breathed.

Maybe if I’m still enough, quiet enough, he’ll ignore me. Maybe—

But there were only a few seconds of stillness before his rough hands grabbed her by the arm and yanked her upright with brutal force.

“Got anything to say before your debut, Number Twenty?” he muttered, his voice low, grating, cruel.

Twenty. I’m number twenty.

“Any last words?” His grip tightened, fingers digging into her flesh. “Any final requests before you meet your new daddy?”

Elishia looked up, her neck craning back to meet his gaze.

Eyes wide. Gaze steady.

For the first time since this nightmare began… her mind wasn’t screaming.

Still terrified—yes. Still trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

But something had settled inside her. A terrible clarity. Maybe it was acceptance. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Maybe it was the realization that panic had gotten her exactly nowhere.

This is it. This is really happening.

She met his eyes.

And froze.

Not brown.

Not black.

His irises were golden. A rich, burning amber flecked with something deeper—like molten metal cooling in a forge. Like captured sunlight with shadows moving beneath the surface.

She hadn’t seen them before. Not really. Not in the darkness of the boat, or the dim corners of the warehouse. Not with all the panic clouding her vision, making everything blur together.

But now she did.

And for a second—just a single, suspended breath—he hesitated.

His grip loosened slightly. His jaw tightened. Something flickered across his features, too quick to name.

What was that? Recognition? Regret?

But then the sneer returned, harder than before, like armor sliding back into place.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice flat again. Professional.

Mark dragged her forward, ignoring the way her feet scrambled to slow him down, her bare soles squeaking against the concrete. Her muscles twisted and resisted—instinct, not strategy—but it didn’t matter.

He was too strong. And he didn’t stop.

“Come on,” he muttered near her ear as he pulled her toward the curtain, his breath hot against her skin. “Don’t get shy now. They’re gonna love you.”

The curtain brushed against her face, plastic clinging to her sweat-dampened skin.

He chuckled, not kindly. “Let’s hope they like mouthy ones. Maybe you’ll fetch double.”

Double. The word hit her like a slap. I’m worth money to them. That’s all I am. A price tag with legs.

Elishia’s heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her temples, behind her eyes, in her fingertips.

And the light of the auction room loomed ahead like the mouth of a beast.

****

The auction hall unfolded before her like a scene from a nightmare masquerading as a business conference.

Bright lights flooded the raised platform—harsh, clinical, designed to show every flaw and feature. Plastic chairs were arranged in neat rows, and a handful of sharply dressed men lounged in them like they were at a wine tasting. Some sipped from crystal tumblers, others murmured into wireless earpieces. More stood along the edges of the room in tailored suits, all eyes trained on the stage like they were shopping for luxury cars.

They look so normal, Elishia thought, horror washing over her in waves. They look like businessmen. Like someone’s father. Like someone’s husband.

She could hear Chad’s voice continuing his pitch, smooth and practiced. “—excellent bone structure, minimal scarring, and as you can see, very responsive to direction—”

He’s talking about one of the other girls like she’s livestock.

Then—a sound that didn’t belong.

A siren.

Shrill. Piercing. Echoing off the steel walls with a distorted wail that made everyone’s heads snap toward the ceiling.

What—?

Everything stopped.

The buyers’ casual conversations died mid-sentence. Chad’s sales pitch cut off abruptly. Even the sobbing from the platform ceased as everyone froze, trying to process what they were hearing.

Elishia flinched as the sound stabbed into her ears like needles.

A crash followed. Violent and sharp—glass or metal—something heavy breaking through from above, followed by a metallic clatter that echoed through the sudden silence.

She barely registered the falling object—black, cylindrical, rolling across the concrete floor with ominous purpose.

Elishia’s eyes locked on it, every instinct screaming without words.

That’s… not right. That doesn’t belong here.

Everything slowed, like the world had suddenly been submerged in thick honey.

One of the buyers stood up abruptly, his chair clattering backward. Another shouted, “What the hell—” before his words were swallowed by chaos.

“GRENADE!” someone screamed from the back of the room.

Too late.

Panic erupted like a dam bursting. Men scrambled over each other, designer suits torn and forgotten. Chairs toppled in cascading crashes. The girls on stage cried out as their handlers abandoned them without a second thought, running for the exits.

Chad—eyes wide with terror—pushed the girl nearest him off the platform, shoving her aside like debris as he sprinted toward the back exit.

The other traffickers did the same—running, shouting, trampling each other, their sleek professionalism evaporating in an instant.

They’re leaving us, Elishia realized with crystal clarity. They’re leaving all of us.

No one cared about the girls.

Not the buyers.

Not the guards.

Not even the boss.

Only their own skin mattered.

We’re disposable. We always were.

Elishia stared, frozen in place, her mind strangely calm in the eye of the storm.

Until she felt it.

A strong arm wrapping around her waist, and Mark’s voice—gritted, urgent.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

He hauled her up, tight against his side, his heart hammering against her ribs as his boots pounded the floor. He was running toward the nearest hallway, carrying her with him like she weighed nothing.

Why isn’t he leaving me too?

However–

They didn’t make it.

They barely made it five steps before—

The grenade detonated.

A blinding white light engulfed the room behind them, searing through walls, skin, thought itself. The explosion was a physical thing, a monster made of sound and fury that swallowed everything in its path.

Elishia’s eyes snapped shut instinctively as a deafening rumble tore through the air, followed by the screech of twisting metal and shattering concrete.

She felt herself lifted—not by Mark’s arms, but by the shockwave itself—and then slammed against something unforgiving.

A sharp crack echoed through her skull, and she couldn’t tell if it was the wall or her bones breaking.

Mark—

The thought barely formed before everything went white, then red, then—

Nothing.

No sound. No light. No feeling. No Mark.

Just the empty hum of silence pressing against her eardrums.

And black.

Endless, merciful black.