The Fae King's Prize (Between Dawn and Dusk #3) - Jamie Schlosser Page 0,2

here. I’m not sure if it’s the bag over my head that smells or the wagon itself.

My cell phone and purse are missing. Even though my wrists are bound in front of me, limiting my range of motion, I’ve done my best to search my pockets and the area where I’m seated. I have nothing.

Worst of all, my glasses are gone. They must’ve fallen off in the scuffle.

As I rack my foggy brain for the last thing I remember, all my parents’ warnings about walking to my car alone in dark parking lots come back to haunt me.

I recall the flickering streetlamp, the stillness of early morning before sunrise, and the quiet crunch of my sneakers on the gravel with each step. Out of nowhere, there was an arm around my neck, a body pressed against my back, and a cloth shoved over my nose and mouth.

Then, just darkness.

I’d been visiting my roommate at her work. Paige is always hungry halfway through her shift, and since I’m an early riser, I do what any good best friend does—I occasionally bring her breakfast. Paige dances at a strip club. Although it’s in a bad area of town, they have good bouncers. One of the guys usually escorts the girls to their cars when they leave, and even though I don’t work there, they do the same for me.

Except for last night. They were short staffed, and I just wanted to get back to my apartment. So, instead of waiting, I told them not to worry about it.

Big mistake.

Next thing I knew, I woke up here.

Since then, I estimate we’ve been riding for about an hour. At least, I think we have. The journey has been bumpy and slow, and time passes differently when you’re fairly positive you’re going to die.

Suddenly, someone opens the back doors, and bright light replaces the darkness I’ve gotten used to.

Time’s up.

As the sunlight filters through the burlap sack, I try to see through the meshy material. There’s an outline of a man—a bulky shadow—but that’s all I can tell.

Chains rattle, and there are more frightened cries as the man starts ushering girls out. Or dragging, in some cases. A couple of the girls are fighting him. It seems like a good idea until I hear a dull slap and a thud.

“Get up,” the man snarls. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Easy. I’ll choose that any day.

Some might call me a coward, but I’ve never been hit before, and I don’t want to find out what it feels like.

I’m not tough. No part of me has ever been broken. Not a bone. Not my heart. Never even had a cavity.

I’ve lived a good life, and while I appreciate that, it didn’t prepare me for harsh conditions.

I have zero tolerance for pain.

To sum it up, I’m a wimp.

Considering my occupation, I feel like I should have a better backbone. I should be stronger. Because what kind of person counsels abused women, convincing them that leaving their violent partners was the right move, when all along I know I might not be so brave?

I’d always suspected if there were a contest for the best kidnapping victim, I’d lose. Or maybe I’d win. I guess it depends on what the end goal is—escaping at all costs, or just being compliant and doing whatever it takes to not piss the captor off.

Whenever I’ve seen news stories about missing women found years after their disappearance, and no one can understand why they didn’t try to get away sooner… I get it. I do. Same goes for women trapped in bad relationships. I can’t blame them. The promise of pain would keep me in line, too. I can barely watch TV shows with torture scenes. If it were me in that situation, I’d cave and blubber and beg at the first threat of torment.

My parents used to say I was the perfect kid. I was obedient to a fault. I never had a rebellious streak, even during adolescence. Instead of making my own mistakes, I learned from others. I’ve lived my life carefully, too scared to let personal experience be my teacher.

Until last night.

One bad judgement call, and here I am.

Abducted.

Since all the captives are tied together like preschoolers on a walk to the park, the rope around my wrists cuts into my skin when the person ahead of me is jerked forward.

The chafing is almost too much. My fingers tingle from lack of circulation. Sweat trickles down