Chapter Text
And this one? She’s in a terrible condition.”
The girl weakly clenched her dirty hands into fists. Chained and raised to both sides of her head, they were too numb to feel much anymore. Her vision was blurry, unable to properly see the new stranger behind the wire gate. But she could sense he was there, no doubt staring at her as if she were a disgusting exhibit at the zoo.
A single flickering light in the dark hallway made a mock halo around the man in her vision. Go on, she thought. He could look all he wanted at how ugly she was.
At least he wouldn’t buy her.
“Do not waste your time,” another man answered. She flinched. She knew that one’s voice. It was the voice of the Russian man who ran that hellhole, the one that had gloated gleefully to her about how much money she would make him. It had only made her more determined to ruin his plans.
“That one will not sell. Little suka ruined herself, fucking cunt. My buyer demanded his money back the second I sent a picture of the fucking damage.”
If she could crack a smile of satisfaction, she would. For now, her face and every part of her hurt so much that she didn’t think she would ever smile again.
“I’m surprised you transferred them the money back,” the other man responded dryly. “Traffickers accepting refunds?”
“Like fuck I needed the reputation of being unable to handle my women. If buyers do not feel their investment is safe, they will not buy,” he spat on the pavement.
“Maybe while you are here, you can cut her open and take out her organs, da?” the horrible man said. His subsequent laugh sounded like spiders crawling out of a greasy drain—she was sure he wasn’t joking. “Then I can make something off her, after all. Beating her makes me feel better, but it will not make me rich.”
She swallowed her dread. It tasted of blood.
Metal creaking and clanging signaled that the new man opened the door to her pen. She felt her heart speed up in warning, urging her to get up and run away from this potential tormentor. But she had no more energy and her raw wrists were cuffed to the wall. Her body was so battered that the chains were pointless. She doubted she could even crawl anywhere. Footsteps approached her on the cement floor. A light aroma hit her nose—the man’s clothes were faintly scented like fresh laundry soap. It was the nicest thing she had smelled in over a week.
“Well,” the figure in front of her answered. She squinted, trying to get a look at him. Though one eye could see better than the other, they were both so blurry and watery. “Let’s see what we can salvage.”
She let out a throaty grunt, barely a hiss of disapproval when she felt the smooth texture of latex lightly touch her jawline. When she tried to move her head away, he merely kept her still by placing his free hand on the other side. The man was kneeling in front of her, examining her. Appraising her value. Though there were many things about her situation that she didn’t understand, she caught the gist in the past few days she was trapped in that forsaken place.
Women such as herself were being held there against their will because they had been terribly unlucky. That vile man and his lackeys grabbed girls and drugged them, keeping them there like merchandise. The men kept talking about some kind of auction. No customers ever came to look at them, so she assumed they were likely put up for sale online. And not all the girls were meant for auction—she heard one of them get taken away yesterday by someone who had requested her. The very concept made her shudder just thinking about it. These people were sick.
If she was just grabbed at random and then her picture was put up on the dark web to add into a fucking shopping cart… she might not ever know. She ruined herself, just as her captor said. Why?
All of the girls, herself included, had been treated horribly for so long. How much time had truly passed, she had no idea. But she was certain it was at least a week. Probably more. They had been drugged out of their minds, kept complacent, moved around, and struck physically if they resisted.
But suddenly, the men cared about how the girls looked. Suddenly, they stopped hitting them. The men shampooed their hair, cleaned their wounds, and washed them with a hose and soap. Makeup was put on them before new men took them away. While some of the girls were thankful for better treatment, she knew what it meant.
They were ready to be sold. And she would do anything to prevent that.
That’s why.
One of the men who thought she was too drugged to even move had put the hair clippers down nearby while he walked off to take a smoke break. While she could have tried to stow the clippers to assault him… she knew another man would just take his place.
Instead, she had cut off as much of her beautiful red hair as she was capable. She had done it in the ugliest way she could manage, bringing the shears close to her skull so it looked like she had bare, balding patches.
It wasn’t enough. Hair could regrow.
With crazed determination, she had brought the blades to the flesh of her cheek and cut deeply into herself under her eye. It was likely the fault of the drugs in her system—she didn’t realize how badly it would hurt until it was too late.
Her screams had brought all of the men running back in, only to find her beautiful appearance was destroyed.
Because she was so ruined, she couldn’t be sold. But that also meant the men could beat her to a pulp in revenge, cursing and screaming and yelling because she cost them so much money.
I will die with my dignity, she thought. Hopefully, her mother assumed and mourned she fell off a cliff while backpacking. A quick and painless death.
But now this strange man was examining her with his latex gloves on her face. If he did something to fix her and make her suitable for selling… god, no. Please, no.
“What on Earth were you thinking…” the man muttered to himself, carefully prodding at the pus leaking from her cheek. “It’s infected. Spread to your eye.”
No shite, Sherlock.
The curious man rummaged through a large bag he brought with him. She hadn’t noticed it until now. He produced a small bottle of pills and then screwed off the cap after examining the label.
“Swallow it,” he told her with a level of authority that angered her.
The bitter pill was placed in her mouth. She held still for a moment.
And then she spat it out onto his black suit. He’s wearing a suit, she finally noticed through her blurry eyes. Fuck these rich men coming here to buy women.
Though… he was a bit different. Perhaps he was some kind of doctor? No typical rich bimbo would come to look her over like this and try to give her medicine.
“I told you, the bitch is… what is the word? Feral,” the Russian called out from the hall. He began rapidly cussing in Russian, rattling off some kind of complaint to him.
“My apologies,” the doctor replied as he wiped the white foam from the pill off the expensive fabric of his suit. He’s some kind of malpracticing doctor, she decided. Who else would come here and act like none of this is evil?
“My Russian is very poor. I only speak Japanese and English.”
“Ah! No apologies needed. You are all my best customers, da? Mister Itoh is a good man. Very good man. Buys my merchandise at such an agreeable price. And you and your father were always so kind to look over my slaves when you visit. Rest his soul.”
The conversation was beginning to make her head pound. She didn’t know who or what an Itoh was. She didn’t know what merchandise they were talking about—women or drugs? Probably both. She knew for sure there were lots and lots of drugs in the building.
It made her feel better that the doctor examining her was stiffly formal with the evil man keeping her here. The Russian was excitable and kind to everyone else but the girls. He could flip like a switch. It creeped her out.
The doctor poked and prodded at her, sighing at her bruises and welts. Was he frowning? She didn’t know. His face was too blurry.
Finally, he stood up and turned away. She was almost disappointed. It was the only form of kind touch she had experienced in so long.
“She is going to die soon. You’re right—it would be pointless to treat her.”
Her heart sank to her toes. A shudder rippled through her. She wished she was hydrated enough to cry. Even though she preferred death over being sold, the news being spoken out loud didn’t make it any less terrifying.
“So… I will buy her for a quarter of her cost.”
She lifted her head so fast in horror that her neck made a sound when the bone popped into place.
“Eh… why?” her captor asked in return, surprised.
“It isn’t often I have a warm body to practice on. She will be useful enough to me before she passes. Her organs are damaged from the infection… you won’t get anything from them.”
The Russian man swore explicitly in his mother tongue. After sighing deeply, he managed to laugh.
“Of course, friend. You take her a quarter of charge. You are doing a big favor to me.”
She wanted to scream. She almost did. From her throat came a hoarse, awful whine that caught the doctor’s attention. He knelt back down in front of her.
“Take the pill, little one.”
He offered her another. She turned her head away. He sighed.
The pills were put away… and instead, he brought up a syringe out from his bag. The chains rattled feebly in response when she tried to yank her bloody wrists away from the wall.
God, no. She had just been getting sober since they stopped wasting drugs on her. Withdrawal was a nightmare. She suffered enough. If it started all over again, she couldn’t bear it.
“Be a good girl,” he coaxed her gently. The black glove of his hand gripped her upper arm, keeping her in place. “I promise, no more pain.”
No more pain because you’re going to kill me.
It was so upsetting to be drugged without knowing what this man buying her even looked like. The only thing her bacteria-filled eyes could see was that he had colorful tattoos on his skin under his neck, barely visible beyond his button-up shirt. His black hair was short and pushed back but some of his bangs hung over his face. Though his eyes were dark, what she managed to see of them reflected a measure of warmth.
The back of her head hit the rough brick behind her as she sank against it. The needle was in her arm. Bliss slowly enveloped her body. Finally, she was no longer in pain.
But she knew when she woke up, a terrible price would be paid for such a reprieve.
What a tragic circumstance that had turned fortunate.
Doctor Kubo felt as though he had found a baby bird that fell from a nest. Beaten and near death, yet still so full of fire. He wanted to pick her up and mend her broken, fragile wings.
Little Hinotori.
She had looked dreadful. Her beautiful red hair was patchy and uneven, marred into the ugliest pixie cut he’d ever seen. Her youthful face was hidden under swollen skin. She had been kicked, punched, and slapped into submission. It was likely that she couldn’t speak at all—she had been choked hard out of anger and there was some damage to her larynx. The deep cut in her right cheek spread an infection to her eyes, causing bacterial conjunctivitis. Whether it was from filth on the blades of the shears or just the horrible environment the girls were kept in, he didn’t know.
What a shame, he thought. She had beautiful green eyes if he looked past the redness and pus gathered on her face.
After a full body exam, he found that she had been beaten severely for her disobedience. Her flesh was littered with black and blue bruises. Between her legs, there was old evidence some eager bastard had raped her. Though she had an infection there too, he didn’t suspect any long-term sexually transmitted diseases.
She could be salvaged.
So, he had lied.
He said she would die—that much was nearly true. Without medical intervention, she would surely pass. But with his help… she would start to feel a bit better in just three days. IV fluids would make a drastic change. The infections would clear up quickly with antibiotics. Since she can no longer spit them out, he mused. He had switched her to an injectable antibiotic far better at delivering her a speedy recovery than a pill. The bruises littering her entire body would even out and fade. Her cracked ribs would heal.
If someone took expert care of her, she could be restored to her former beauty—perhaps with just a minor scar on her cheek from those scissors. All she would need was time.
“Kubo-sensei,” Itoh suddenly caught his attention from the side. He was sitting on one of the posh leather seats nearby. The steady sound of the jet plane’s engines hummed beyond the wall. It would take about six hours to get home to Tokyo.
“A smoke, perhaps? You seem lost in thought.”
His superior offered him a cigarette, cocking an eyebrow. Though Kubo typically wouldn’t approve of nicotine use, he agreed that the relief would be worth it in this situation.
“Is it the girl?” he asked. At the doctor’s gaze, he scoffed. “Why did you buy that thing from Yury? We go there, we get our merchandise, we get a generous discount for your services, and then we leave. We never buy girls from there. So poorly kept. I wouldn’t touch any of his slaves if my life depended on it. That man is foul… but he’s our best opiate supplier. We have enough to keep our customers happy for months at least.”
Kubo furrowed his brows, taking the cigarette and accepting the flame that Itoh lit for him.
“She’s an investment. A bit of polish and she’ll be as good as new,” he replied, exhaling a puff of smoke.
They both glanced over to the side. The girl in question was spread out across a blanket on a leather couch, bound by her wrists and ankles but otherwise delicately handled. Kubo was silently thankful that the Yakuza could afford jets—he would have never been able to take her on a commercial flight or even a boat. Not only did she look terrible but she stank to high heaven of piss, blood, and sweat. It wasn’t her fault. Yury had hosed her off before they left, but it did little to help.
Itoh, bless him for not complaining about the stench, stared at her intensely for a while then sighed and relaxed back into his chair. The beautiful flight attendant, Itoh’s wife, had poured them both a scotch earlier and then planted a soft kiss on her husband’s temple. She hadn’t openly paid a single bit of attention to the beaten foreign girl on the couch. If she had, she’d have been scolded severely.
After sipping his drink, Itoh returned his gaze to Kubo.
“Right. It has nothing to do with you being a bleeding heart,” he teased him. Kubo only tutted with the cigarette between his lips. “One of my Kyodai trains slaves. I could recommend him if you plan to keep her. After all, Yury was right. The little wench is crazy. I don’t need our clan Doctor having his hands so full. And aren’t you planning to move out of your father’s home, soon? That’s no time to be leading a willful slave around. Tell me you plan to re-sell her.”
Kubo chuckled, chewing on the end of his barely-used cigarette before he crushed it into the nearby tray. He knew very well that Itoh was referring to Furoka-san. A bit of a clan oddball to be sure, but he had no issues with him. Furoka did a lot of business with him, always keeping his medicine cabinet stocked to the nines.
“I might sell her and turn a profit if she’s unbearable. But for now, she needs a doctor,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll keep your suggestion in mind, of course. I haven’t owned a slave before… I may be in over my head.”
Itoh leered at him with caution. No one in the clan owned a slave if the higher-ups thought they couldn’t handle it. The last thing they needed was an inconsolable wench running away and shrieking to the press about being kept as a sex object to the Yakuza—even if the police were aware of their antics.
“Don’t look so serious, Itoh-san. I gave up my public practice. I have enough time to keep an eye on her.”
“I trust you,” his Shateigashira replied. “Ever since your father passed, you have filled his shoes better than we could have ever asked for. I can only hope we accommodate you well enough.”
Kubo remained silent. The topic of his father was never easy. Both of them pursued a career as medical professionals, but the late Doctor Kubo had purely been involved in clan business. Despite their differences, they had been close. It was only when his father passed that his son closed his public practice and focused on what his Yakuza brothers needed from him. It hadn’t been a hard decision—his father left all his life’s earnings to him.
Itoh glanced thoughtfully out the window, sipping his drink. Kubo sighed, following his gaze.
“Times are changing for the clan. We don’t hold as much power as we used to. The fact that we travel overseas for our supplies and we deal with scum like Yury is proof enough. Soon… we may not enjoy these pleasures. Best we indulge while we can, Itoh.”
Itoh returned Kubo’s words with a weary smile. It was true—the Yakuza’s influence was waning. Perhaps strong enough for now, but even a god sitting atop his highest tower could feel the quake below.
“I’ll drink to that, Kubo-san.”
Getting the girl home hadn’t been hard. Yury had given them a large container that wasn’t particularly suspicious to keep her in when they had to come and go from the plane. If anything, it looked like he had just gotten a rather large box for moving out—most of his house was littered with boxes.
She was asleep inside it, out cold from another round of drugs. Kubo frowned at her nude, battered body. Even though treating her would take priority, he had to clean her off far more efficiently than a hose could so that he might see her injuries better.
As he carefully laid her down in the tub, he started the warm water. He had no intention to fill the basin—the water would just get filthy in moments. Instead, he took a pause to remove his suit and shirt. Both were stained with blood and grime from carrying her and being in that environment.
He stopped to look at himself in the mirror. Tattoos of koi fish, waterfalls, and forest spirits were inked all over his torso. Though he hadn’t been inked further than that, what he had so far might still be quite a shock to a foreigner. Did she know anything about the Yakuza and the lifestyle of a Master and slave?
With a shake of his head and a soft chuckle, he knelt next to the tub.
“Poor girl,” he murmured as he picked up a cloth and began gently wiping away the filth from her legs. It was a shame she was too drugged to react to his attention, but he’d had a long day. A squabble with a terrified girl was the last thing he needed. What he needed was sleep and maybe something to eat.
How horrible it would be for him to leave her wallowing in her own filth while he made a sandwich. No, he could wait a bit longer until she was taken care of.
Bit by bit, the girl began to look human again. Underneath the dirt and bruises, he found pale flesh and freckles. It seemed she had no broken bones—maybe a cracked rib. But if he kept her in bed long enough, it would heal well on its own.
He pondered on the brutality of Yury’s slave trade. There was a right way to do things and a wrong way to do things, and his treatment of his girls was too harsh. As awful as it was that this girl had felt the need to harm herself in the face of such a fate, he felt almost fortunate.
He understood the appeal of owning a slave. Like anyone else, he had sexual desires. But he was… what was the term all the young ones were using? He needed to feel a strong bond with a girl before he found them arousing.
It was difficult to form a lasting bond with a potential partner due to his involvement with the Yakuza. He had tried over the years while juggling his career, but his girlfriends wanted out the moment they understood his family’s true nature.
And he let them go. The relationship was consensual. What else was he supposed to do? Having ties to the Yakuza was just simply too frightening to most average women.
He had all but given up on the idea anyone would ever be devoted to him.
But this girl… he rinsed the shampoo from her hair—or what hair she had left.
She couldn’t leave him if she wanted to. No one outside the clan knew where she was. No one would be coming to save her. As of now, he was all she had to protect her.
It was a heady sensation.
He wondered if she would adore him for saving her life. Or would she despise him no matter what he did?
He wanted to protect the fragile creature that had been too proud to give in to her captors. A baby bird that fell from a nest. There was now room for something more to grow between them if she would let it happen and see him as a savior.
If he could be the one to tame that phoenix until her flame wouldn’t burn him… it would be immensely satisfying.
The sun shone on her face and then passed.
Moonlight glowed through the window, then gave way to more sun. It happened over and over.
She had no idea how many days she lay there drifting in and out of awareness. Everything was so hazy and everything hurt so badly. There was a tube in her nose that tickled her throat whenever she swallowed. She went to remove it at one point, but her wrists were cuffed to the soft bed beneath her. Several times, she had the silly urge to feel deep shame that surely she must be wetting herself—but then she felt a catheter between her legs as well. An IV coming from her inner arm completed the set.
It was the kind of thorough treatment one might expect from a hospital.
Well, a creepy hospital that tied their patients down.
Thankfully, she never had very long to contemplate her scary circumstances. Before fear could take hold, she would always drift back off to that dreamy state. Her body needed to heal and it took every generously provided moment to do so.
It was only days later that she woke up and noticed everything felt different.
There was no ticklish tube in her nose. No uncomfortable catheter. She still had an IV in her arm, but that wasn’t so bad. When her eyes lifted to the bag hanging nearby from the pole, she scrutinized it and hoped it was only hydrating fluids. Covering her body was a large white t-shirt that wasn’t hers. At first, it bothered her that she had been dressed and handled in her sleep. Then she realized how silly it was to care when she had been entirely nude when chained up.
A nervous swallow passed down her bandaged throat.
She was in a bedroom. A man’s bedroom, no doubt. Maybe it was presumptuous of her, but she felt from the dark tones and simple, bare-bones decoration that it was a man who lived there. The bed’s comforter was a deep cocoa color, warm and heavy on her. It was interesting that the mattress was so close to the floor, unlike beds in the UK. The room looked bigger that way. Every wall in the room was white—the “I couldn’t be bothered to paint the house” kind of white. Cardboard boxes were stacked on top of each other in the corner. Generic blinds were over the window that had been providing her an inkling of the passage of time.
“Hello?”
She opened her mouth… and nothing came out but a pained croak. When she instinctively went to lift her hand to her neck, the cuff on her wrist stopped her. Brows furrowed, she wanted to look under the covers but it was awkward trying to lift them. Eventually, she felt with her fingers that there was a rope leading down to the bottom of the bed.
It was a small mercy that her wrists were down low beside her and not tied up at her sides to remind her of that cage.
She lay there, mourning her situation. Yet, curiosity kept her from shedding any tears. What perverted slave buyer would go this far out of their way to treat a beaten, dying girl back to health? She remembered the man’s words that he would experiment on her… but had that been a lie? A lie to help her? Otherwise, Yury might not have sold her at all.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. Somewhere within the house, she heard a door open and then close. Like a sixth sense, she knew he was walking toward the room. Her entire body went rigid with anticipation and with each passing second, her anger grew. No matter his intentions, this sick fuck bought her.
The door opened. The man appeared and the sight of him suddenly made her realize how good her vision was.
How okay she felt. It was outright silly how she hadn’t realized that her eyes were fine and her face no longer burned. Lips parted in surprise, she stared at the man like he had two heads.
He was well-dressed, wearing a pair of black slacks and a long-sleeved green button-up shirt—a shade of green that reminded her of matcha tea. His hair was short and pushed back but several strands hung over his forehead at the side. Since everything down there looked tall, she had a hard time telling how tall he was. It was also hard telling how old he was. The man was Japanese, that she was sure, but she was also sure their age was incredibly hard to guess at times. Maybe… thirties?
But his eyes… warm and dark. This was definitely the same man who examined her when she was chained in that slave pen.
He was handsome. It was disturbing that he was handsome and yet he had been in a place like that.
The past week or so’s events had spoiled the concept of sexuality and men for her. At least, for now. She knew she would recover. She couldn’t put everyone in a box of evil and tape it up. Before those disgusting men took her, she was no stranger to her desires. She wasn’t a virgin and she had boyfriends in the past. She was normal.
Was. Was normal.
Now, she wondered if she would ever be normal again.
“I step away for just a minute and you’re awake,” he commented, offering her a smile. She didn’t return the gesture. Lips tightly closed into a fine line, she yanked harshly at the cuff under the bed covers. His eyes followed the movement—it didn’t take a genius to figure out what she wanted.
With a sigh, he circled around to the side of the bed she was on. When she expected him to reach and peel down the covers, he instead placed his hand over her forearm on top of the blankets.
“Not yet, little one. You have me very worried about you, pulling stunts like cutting your hair and your face. For now, I think it’s best you relax and stay in the cuffs.”
Her jaw trembled in frustration.
“I do understand your desperation. I do. If I had been in your place… I think I might have tried to end my life as well. But you’re safe now. I bought you from him and you won’t be going back there.”
She flashed a most resentful look at him when he said the word bought. In return, he huffed some air out from his nose.
“Don’t give me that look,” he warned her. It didn’t sound like the kind of threat that the evil men yelled at her before they would hit her. If anything, it seemed like a stern scolding by a father. “You were very sick and nearly dying. Not irreparable yet, but just a day more and the infection would have led to sepsis. Sane people would feel grateful to their doctor in this situation.”
Her irises fluttered up and around in the most exaggerated gesture of an eye roll she could muster.
So he is a doctor.
He let out a scathing chuckle at her complete dismissal of him.
“Well… you will be thankful, eventually. I can wait for you to realize I mean you no harm.”
Doubt it.
Men like him were snakes. Even the Russian man had come into her pen one day, drunk and tutting his tongue with a piece of apple in his palm to try and get her complacent enough to suck his cock. What was she, some kind of standardless whore? Or horse, maybe, considering the apple. He’d seemed dim-witted enough to mistake the two.
Either way, she wouldn’t doubt that this man only pretended to be a savior.
Where am I?
She had so many questions that would go unanswered as long as she couldn’t vocalize them.
“…W…wh…”
A rasp escaped her throat but that was all she could manage. It felt like her voice was being painfully squeezed between a pair of pliers in her neck.
The doctor held up a hand to her throat, shaking his head.
“Don’t try to speak, either. The longer you let your voice rest, the sooner it might come back. Alright?”
Her gaze drifted to the side. She supposed she would have to get used to one-way conversations with this man.
“Anyway, formal introductions are in order,” he said, attempting a cheerier tone of voice. Reluctant to engage, she continued to look at the wall. “I’m Doctor Kubo. This is my home, and I live by myself.”
He paused, looking her over.
“Did live by myself.”
She sighed aggressively. I don’t care, she obviously conveyed. Though any of the other men who kidnapped her would have gotten angry, Kubo merely let out a good-natured scoff.
“You are quite the moody teenager, aren’t you?”
Her eyes darted to him immediately, a scowl of confusion on her face.
“Ah, my mistake. Of course you must be older than that.”
If I answer him, will he tell me how old he is? Not that I care… she considered. Just need to know on a scale from one to ten how creeped out I should be by him.
After some thought, she nodded slowly to indicate that he was correct. She was twenty-one. Considered an adult by society but still only just a girl to her mother.
Mam… shite, that’s right. How long has it been? Is she worried?
She told her mom that her trip would take a couple of weeks. Had that time already passed? It was bad enough that she hadn’t been able to call, though it was understood she might be out in nature a lot.
Her mom wasn’t ever one to obsess over her to the point of panic. Her idea of parenting was very loose—especially loose after her dad died when she was only twelve. Some mothers might cling tighter to their child at the loss of a loved one. Instead, her mam just kind of stopped caring about a lot of things.
She was still a good parent. Just with a piece of her torn out from the loss of her husband. She understood—she felt the same hole in her heart from losing her dad.
The thought of him not being here to see what had happened to her almost made her want to cry with relief. Tragedy like this would have eaten at him so badly. He had always been the most emotional one in the family.
I should have never gone on this stupid trip, she lamented. At the same time, she had done this already five other times over the past several years. She had previously been to Scotland, Thailand, Japan, Canada, and France. Her mother warned her to be careful each time, but she knew that this was her form of income. Traveling around and posting beautiful photos of herself on Instagram made her money. Nothing bad had happened before.
Guess I ran out of luck.
“I see,” the doctor nodded, bringing him back to her attention. “Teen or not, that is still too young to deal with such a horrible thing. I’m sorry that happened to you, little one.”
She scrutinized him, narrowing her eyes. He seemed to mean it.
“But,” he continued, beginning to turn away. “I promise you won’t be going back there. You’re safe here.”
His words were met with a dubious stare from her.
Then why were you in that place to begin with?
She wish she could call him out. A glare of disapproval would have to do for now.
“Well, anyway. A shame I don’t know your name. I thought about doing an internet search to see if anyone was looking for you… but I got to thinking that I would prefer you tell me yourself. When your throat heals, I mean.”
He’s… odd.
“For now, I’ve taken to calling you Hinotori. Or ‘Tori-chan’. You weren’t exactly awake to file a complaint about it.”
Tori? Well, it could be worse. It at least sounded like an actual name. Despite the fact he was Japanese, she could tell the man was very worldly and sounded a lot like an American. He had almost no accent of his tongue as he spoke.
She found it very odd that this man would buy her, take her home, nurse her to health, and give her a nickname. Odd and concerning.
“I was about to get you some pudding from the fridge—I’m sure you must miss real food. Does that sound alright?”
Her gaze dropped to the blanket in front of her. Her eyes fell to where her wrists were out of sight, bound. Despite how nice that sounded, her stubborn brain screamed at her to continue being difficult. Her mind still hadn’t left the fight part of fight or flight mode.
Kubo shocked her by finally pulling the covers back just enough to expose her forearms. His hands wrapped around her wrist and he began removing the cuff. First, one. Then, both of them. She gawked up at him—there was only a subtle, gentle smile on his face. His large palms were so warm compared to her tiny, cold wrists. Though she wanted to swear off men… one touch from him felt almost electric to her desires. If she had met him normally, she would have flirted with him. She wasn’t ignorant to how much men desired her. A crazy part of her almost felt some shame that she was so ugly right now.
“Tori-chan? A nod or such would be appreciated.”
The sudden and open use of the nickname he had given her made her look at him, scrunching up her face in an almost comical way. Clearly, she hated being called that. It just felt weird.
My name is Riley, you weirdo.
In return, he openly laughed in the sort of way that indicated he had only done it to get a reaction from her.
“Okay… so you don’t like Tori. Well, I didn’t plan to get attached to it. You’ll have to tell me your real name once your throat heals.”
Riley stared at him for several cautious moments before she barely nodded, finally showing a sign of being agreeable. In return, Kubo smiled broadly.
“Now… how about chocolate?”
Another slow, careful nod. She loved chocolate pudding. Who didn’t?
Maybe… he’s a nice man?
No, she immediately corrected herself. If he was a nice man, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near that horrible place.
She relaxed back into the soft pillows and gazed up at the ceiling. After he exited the room, she had nothing to do but to be left alone with her thoughts.
I can’t believe I made it out of that alive…
If she had been beaten to death, raped to death, even… she thought for sure that was how she was going to go. No matter how it happened, it was going to be painful.
That was the price to pay to avoid being enslaved.
But now…
She glanced toward the barely-ajar door the doctor left through. A loud, dramatic sigh escaped her.
“Sane people would feel grateful to their doctor in this situation.”
As much as she was reluctant to admit it… she was grateful. He gave her a second chance and healed her.
It made her feel better that he didn’t feel the need to keep her tied up. That man saved her life.
I just hope he doesn’t think he owns it.