“How? Tell me.”

“I wasn’t a random pickup you fucking prick.”

She shoved at my chest, but she wasn’t nearly strong enough.

“Piss off a boyfriend? He finally get enough of your bitchy mouth?”

Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks, a raw and complete pain intensifying the green.

“You don’t know anything about me. Not a thing!”

“Tell me!” I shook her hard, lifting her to her feet and pressing her against the wall. I held her there by her throat.

Her face reddened, and she watched me. I wasn’t sure if she was able to speak or not. Rage hotter than hell burned through me, and I squeezed her neck.

“Fucking tell me!”

She choked out a sob, and when I loosened my hold, she began to cough.

“Did he order your branding as punishment?”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” she choked out.

I released her, and she dropped to her hands and knees, still coughing.

“He’s a murderer. A monster.” She paused, turned her face up, and added: “Like you.”

I narrowed my gaze, although we both knew she was right. The room stood strangely quiet, her on her knees at my feet, eyes red, cheeks wet with tears, hate spearing me.

“Just like you,” she said again, sitting back on her heels and lowering her gaze, giving herself over to the tears that seemed unending. I watched like the monster she accused me of being. The monster I was. I just stood there and watched her come apart until she quieted, and then I pulled the chair closer and sat down, my gaze still on her, as if I’d never seen this before, never seen a person come unglued.

She sat up and wiped the last of her tears, the look in her eyes telling me hate fueled her now. Hate kept her upright.

“I normally don’t give a shit about the girls that pass through here, but you’re different. You’re like me, Gia. You’re filled with hate.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

I ignored her. “Maybe I won’t bother taking you to the auction. Keep you for myself until I wear you out instead. Until there’s nothing left.”

She stared at me. Was it fear that left her mute? That pushed tears from her eyes?

“That’s a scary thought, isn’t it?”

“It would be if there was any truth to it, but you’re a peon.”

Her voice broke, betraying her panic. But she kept going.

“You’re a nobody. You work for them. You don’t get to decide. You don’t get to choose what happens to me.”

I swallowed hard. She was right. She was exactly right. She paused, and I wondered if she could read my face. I needed to end this, to take back control.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I defended.