CELESTE’S POV
“Up.”
The chain snapped tight as I was hauled forward, biting into my shoulder until pain flared, raw and searing. I stumbled off the truck, landing on concrete steeped in oil and decay. My bare feet slipped. Laughter echoed, sharp and cruel.
“Seriously,” another voice drawled. “Don’t fucking bruise the goods. He’s not going to be happy.”
My stomach lurched at that damning word again: goods.
A chill swept over my skin as the doors crashed shut behind us. The sound reverberated, heavy and final, like a lid sealed. I drew a breath that tasted metallic and stale, saturated with suffering.
Through the dull roar in my skull, I realized that we were lined up.
Chains tugged as bodies were forced into order, collars clinking in a helpless, defeated rhythm.
Someone whimpered behind me. Someone else retched and sobbed until a sharp blow cut the sound off mid-breath.
“Eyes down.”
