Dedication

For everyone going into their villain era right now

Sharpen those claws and draw blood, Queens.

Prey Island Map

PROLOGUE

My breath saws in and out of my lungs as I run. The howl behind me makes my blood freeze in my veins, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop, not if I want to live.

This isn’t how I imagined my life, but this is what I have to do now. This is what it’s come to, and I will not be beaten down by these assholes. I won’t go down without a fight.

My legs burn from days of exhaustion. My chest burns with the rough breaths I force out.

I shouldn’t be here, but I am, and so I’m going to take them down with me. . .

Even if I go down with them. . .

ONE

Eight Days Ago

The club is livelier tonight than it’s been in a while. The drinks are flowing which always makes the money flow faster. My kind of night. I usually walk away with a couple grand in tips on nights like this. I don’t even care where the money comes from, if it’s from men who sell drugs or men who are pulling the last couple dollars from their family savings for the illusion that he stands a chance with me. It’s none of my business. What is my business? The music that starts to play signaling that it’s my turn on the stage.

“Everyone, put your money where your mouth is for Freya, Goddess of Love!” the DJ announces as the song starts. “Come throw some money at a goddess and get a taste of the divine.”

The new DJ is good. I’ll give him that. He’s really selling this illusion of me being a goddess, as if the goddess of love, death, and battle would be moonlighting at an upscale gentleman’s club in the heart of Denver, Colorado. But these men in the crowd don’t care to think about that. It’s all a fantasy, just like the name, just like the outfit, just like the laurels in my hair. They want to think they’re powerful enough to bring a goddess to her knees, to dance for them, and I’ll let them believe it as long as they keep the money coming.

I start to move with the music, smiling coyly when the hoots and hollers start. Someone whistles and I shake my ass in his direction, prompting him to throw a twenty on the stage, another in his hand ready to go. Ah yes. The money is definitely flowing tonight.

The sweet sounds of “Down With the Sickness” fill the air as I climb the pole and swing around it, doing my signature moves that always get me more twenties. The men eat that shit up. They’re so easy, so ready to believe a goddess is crawling toward them and letting them thread bills into her thong.

Peasants.

When there are piles of twenties on the stage, I pull the string on the back of my top and let it fall loose, revealing my breasts for the crowd. They whistle and whoop, excited at the sight of my tits just like they are at the other girls. It doesn’t matter what my face looks like here. Throw some nipples on it and they’ll throw hundred dollar bills your way.

The club always caters to the regulars, lonely men who come here for the ambience and their favorite girls. I have my own regulars, but sometimes, new ones come in and hang around. It’s not usually a problem as long as they pay, but one particular man appears in the crowd as I dance, his eyes hungrily tracing over my body. I’m used to being objectified, to having men undress me with their eyes, to seeing them imagining fucking me right here on the stage, but something about this man unnerves me. My skin crawls when he holds up a hundred-dollar bill and I know I have to move over to him. Anything over a twenty requires it. It’s in the rules.

“With your teeth,” he commands when I reach for the money.

I hesitate, knowing this game well. Money is dirty, and you have to be careful what you take from men, so instead of putting it in my mouth, I grab his hand in mine and press it between my breasts, encouraging him to trail down my stomach and thread it into my G-string. My skin crawls at the contact, but it’s better than possibly being poisoned by a customer. Lucky for me, he’s into it, distracted by the feel of my skin against his sweaty hand. It takes everything in me not to gag at the feeling.

Backing away immediately, I continue my dance, finishing out my song before scrapping all the cash thrown at me into my arms, grabbing my top, and carefully stepping down off the stage with the bouncer’s help. He’ll gather up any money left behind and ensure it gets to my table. But my shift isn’t done. Once I get to the back and freshen up, I’ll have to head on out to the floor again and walk around like a piece of meat, encouraging men to pay for a private dace to bring in more money.

At least it’s a crowded night and I’ll walk out of here with a good chunk of cash.

Once I freshen up, clean the sweat from my body and spritz some more perfume on, I fluff my hair, adjust my laurels, and sport my tiny toga looking dance outfit. Yes, I know it looks more Grecian, but the men aren’t smart enough to notice the difference and try finding something that looks like a Valkyrie in a dance shop. It’s nearly impossible.

“You almost done for the night?” Holly asks from beside me. She’s fixing her makeup, clearly having just made out with her boyfriend in one of the private rooms. The adorable man comes in every night and purchases most of her time, just so he can be near her. He’s the least jealous man I’ve ever seen, cheering for her on stage, encouraging her. A lot of dancers get into toxic relationships and the men don’t always like it when their ladies are dancers, but they give me hope with how healthy they are. Holly and Mark are couple goals.

“I have one more hour on the floor and then I’m done,” I tell her. “You doing okay tonight?”

She nods and pulls out a wad of money. “Mark paid for two hours of dances up front just so we can hang out for half my shift.”

“That boy is head over heels in love with you,” I tell her with a smile. “He’s gonna propose soon.”

“God, I hope so,” she giggles, a blush spreading on her cheeks. “You get on out there and take some of that money that’s flowing. I heard we’re up twenty five percent right now.”

“Shit, I better get out there then for sure,” I laugh. “You take care of yourself, Holly. Tell Mark I say hello.”

“You, too, Billie.”

I leave the room, preparing to go about my rounds and find some sucker to pay for a lap dance, but the manager of the club stops me before I make it too far. “Freya, hold on.”

The managers always call us by our stage names to make sure the customers don’t overhear our real names. It helps protect us from stalkers and the like, but it still is hard to get used to hearing a different name. Took me months. Now, I’m years into this job so it’s second nature to respond to the dance name.

“Hey, Sam. What’s up?”

“You have a private dance request,” he says. “He’s waiting in the back room.”

Furrowing my brows, I glance around the club. “Who is it?”

“The new rich guy who’s been coming in and watching you—”

“Oh, no, Sam. Tell him I’m not available. That guy gives me the creeps,” I beg, prepared to turn around and call the rest of the night off. Just thinking about giving that man a lap dance makes my skin crawl. “Please, Sam.”

“Freya, he’s paying like two grand for the dance.”

I freeze. “What? Why?”

Sam shrugs. “Don’t know. He really wants the dance and says he’s willing to pay two grand for it.”

“Is he expecting. . .”

Sam shakes his head. “Just a dance. You know I don’t allow that here.”

Relief fills me but still, I don’t like it. “Two grand is a lot. . .”

“You take this dance, you can go home for the night. Hell, I’ll even drop down your percent paid tonight from fifteen percent to ten. Just make the guy happy and get him out of here. He freaks out the other girls, too.”

Sighing, I nod. “Fine. In and out. But it’s the only one I’m doing for him.”

“Deal.” Sam pats me on the back and points to the private rooms. “He’s in room four.”

Grumbling to myself, I sway my hips as I walk through the crowd toward the private rooms, poking my head inside the curtain once there. Immediately, my eyes go to the extra man standing in the corner. I frown before stepping inside completely, my hand on the curtain in case I need to make a quick getaway.

“Only one customer in the room at a time,” I say, looking pointedly at the bodyguard-style guy standing against the wall. He doesn’t move at my words and looks at his boss where he sits on the couch. “If he wants a dance, he’ll have to pay, too.”

“With the amount of money I’m paying for this, he stays,” the man on the couch says around a cigar in his mouth. I’m getting ready to tell him off—rules are rules—when he adds, “I’ll even double it if you get that sweet ass over here and dance without further questions.”

Four grand. That’s a large chunk of money for a single dance. It’ll nearly double my money for the night. Still my unease grows. Why is he so interested in seeing me dance, in paying so much money for it?

But four grand.

So I push myself through the unease and move over to the table, stepping up and on the pole. I start to dance, highly aware of the other man watching even if he’s clearly there as a bodyguard for the guy I’m dancing for. Whoever he is, he must be important to need such protection. If I just think about the money, I can almost pretend he’s not behind me watching it all.

I sway to the music, twisting this way and that, feeling those lewd eyes tracing my skin from both directions. Goosebumps rise on my arms in revulsion, as if just the gaze of the rich asshole on the couch alone causes it.

He pats his thigh, beckoning me over, and because he’s a paying customer, I can’t really say no, not without Sam giving me shit. So I climb from the table and straddle his waist, preparing to give him the lap dance of a lifetime so there’ll be no argument over the money when it comes time to pay.

He grins up at me and my revulsion grows. “What a pretty trophy you’ll make,” he purrs.

His words make me pause because that sounds more like a threat than anything else. I see it in his eyes, the predatory look, and fuck that! I’m not going to be anyone’s trophy. Four grand isn’t worth this skin crawling experience.

I open my mouth, prepared to scream for security while I try to scramble from his lap despite his meaty hands clamping down on my thighs. Before I can get any words out, before I can scream for help, something is pressed against my mouth and nose from behind. Something sweet fills my nostrils, choking me. I try to scream, but the rag is pressed tighter against my mouth, the bodyguard clearly keeping me still with the help of the man holding my thighs. The bodyguard is too big, and I’m at a disadvantage. Darkness creeps at the edges of my vision as the man leans in close and strokes a finger down my cheek.

“I’m going to hunt you down and mount you on my wall, Freya,” he whispers roughly. “I’m going to hunt a goddess.”

I think I’m going to be sick.

My vision goes black, and I hear no more.

TWO

I wake up with a start in a full-on panic. I jerk at the sudden wakefulness and immediately slam my head against something cold and metal. It smarts hard enough to make me duck and cradle my face. Clutching my skull in my hands at the sudden ache that fills it, an already terrible headache made worse by hitting it so hard, I force myself to calm down and ease the pain. Deep breaths roll in and out of my lungs as the pain ebbs just enough that I can think.

“What the fuck?” I groan, trying to stretch out my legs and hitting more metal in front of me.

My eyes fly open, and I look around, my heart rate kicking up when I realize I’m in a metal box barely big enough for me to move.

A cage.

“What the fuck?” I say again, this time more panicked as I try to push the door open. When that doesn’t work, I start kicking it, but that doesn’t work either. It’s metal. Not like I can kick through metal. Reaching through the bars, I feel for the locking mechanism and feel nothing I can force open. There isn’t a keyhole, only some sort of strange box. “Fuck!” I growl in frustration, pushing at the bars again as if that’s going to do something.

The cage is small, just big enough for me to sit inside of it cross-legged comfortably and nothing more. I don’t know where I am, but when I get my bearings about me, I start looking through the holes in the cage around me. While the cage is solid metal, there are a few large windows on each side that I’m able to get my arms between the bars. When I clutch at the nearest one and peer out, I realize I’m not the only one locked up. There has to be dozens of cages here, of people in them. When I listen, I can hear soft murmurs of male voices, some in English, some in different languages. There are a few panicked words, a few sounds of someone kicking at the metal the same way I did.

“Hello?” I ask, moving from one side of the cage to the other. In the cage immediately to the right of me, a man stares at me silently, the soft slant to his eyes drawing me in. “Hey! Do you know what’s happening? Where are we?”

Tears threaten to fall at my panic, but I force them back. I won’t cry for these people, whoever these people are. Am I being trafficked? Am I being sold into the sex trade? What the fuck is going on?

The man is dressed in a suit, but it looks dirty and torn. Whoever took him and put him in his cage didn’t escape unscathed. Clearly, he didn’t go down without a fight judging by the rips and tears in his outfit. A mark on his eyebrow is crusted with blood. His lip is split. A blemish is working its way beneath the skin to the surface on his sharp cheekbones. He’s of Asian descent and with the sounds of other languages around me, I worry he won’t understand me. Unless he speaks, I won’t know if there’s a language barrier or not.

He studies me as I hover expectantly, as I cling to the edge of my cage. We’re close enough that if we both reach through the bars, we could touch, but neither of us reaches out. I feel the moment he realizes how little I’m wearing by what he can see through the small holes along the bottom, how much skin is revealed, and he averts his eyes respectfully. Only then do I realize I’m in my Grecian dance outfit still and the cold suddenly seeps in when I understand the lack of clothing. Curling my arms around myself, I try to keep some of my warmth in as I wait expectantly for him to respond.

He shakes his head slowly. “I know nothing,” he responds in a deep accented voice.

Both relief at him understanding me and dread at him not knowing any information fills me. This can’t be real. All I remember is dancing in the club and then. . .that asshole! He drugged me with something! I was fucking chloroformed. When I get out of here, I’m going straight to the cops and reporting that asshole. Fuck him! He sold me into trafficking, that cunt! Sam has to know the guy’s name. He has to.

I startle when the Asian man moves again, reaching through the bars. He took his suit jacket off while I was searching through my memories and is now holding it out to me, an offering. I hesitate at the sight before reaching through the bars gratefully and taking the suit jacket. When I wrap it around me, it swamps my body, but it’s warm and smells like sandalwood. Something inside of me sits up at attention despite the situation. Fuck, he smells good.

“Thank you,” I breathe gratefully, pulling it tighter around me to keep warm.

He only looks away, his eyes taking in the area around us, as if he’s searching for weaknesses.

Only then do I understand we’re in a cargo plane. The sound of the engines filter into my brain, a deep hum filling the cargo hold, and the metal looks like the inside metal of planes I’ve seen on tv shows. I’m literally in a cargo plane in a cage. Is this a fucking reality tv show or am I royally fucked? Trying my best not to let panic overtake me, I curl into a ball and wrap myself as much as possible in the jacket. I kick off my heels, because those things will be useless as anything other than a weapon in this situation. Whatever this is, whether sex trafficking or I’m about to die, I won’t let my panic take over. I can’t cry here.

I’ll find a way out of it, one way or the other.

And then I’m going to go find that asshole from the club and rip his dick off for daring to take me.

THREE

Several hours later, my limbs are aching when the plane begins to descend. I can hear the change in the engines and my ears start to pop, telling me the pressure is changing and regulating inside the cargo hold. I have no idea where we’re at, but I pick up one of my heels, ready to fight and stab a motherfucker who dares to pull me from this cage and sell me. I have no idea if I’ll be paraded on a stage or perused like a heifer. I’ve seen enough documentaries to know if I let someone else take me, I’m probably dead. No one will ever find me. But if I’m going to die, I certainly won’t be going down without taking a few with me. They picked the wrong bitch to kidnap.

Except, no one appears. No one comes from the cockpit or stands to prepare us. Nobody unlocks the cages or checks their cargo. It’s as if the only person on this plane is those of us in cages and the pilot who definitely doesn’t appear. The cockpit door never opens, the metal sealed shut.

The plane continues its descent until it lands with a violent jolt that makes me smack my elbow on the side of the cage, making it ring from the hit to the funny bone as I shift in the metal box, looking out of the holes in the hopes of seeing where the enemy will come from. More of the others in cages have woken up judging by the angry shouts and the rattling metal. Those around me are all men and I can’t hear any feminine screams. That alone surprises me. I thought traffickers focused mainly on women, or at least took a lot more women than men, but perhaps they’re equal opportunity traffickers? Fuck if I know how trafficking works.

A few of the men closest to me make lewd comments and gestures toward me once they woke up and saw my heels through the windows along the bottom of the cage, but at least I have the jacket the kind Asian man gave me to keep my outfit out of sight. I wrap myself tighter in the coat and hope that this is going to turn out okay as the plane taxis around wherever we are. Are we on a runway? Have I been kidnapped by a government? Christ, someone should really reveal themselves right now before I create some stupid fantasy of a rich asshole kidnapping me and telling me he loves me. That’s how the books always work.

Somehow, I don’t think this is going to go as well as those books.

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