The men approached the bed in silence.
“Where is he?” Armin asked, panic tightening his throat.
They offered no answer.
Before he could react, one of the large men grabbed his hands, twisting them roughly behind his back and binding them tight.
The coarse rope bit painfully into his skin.
The second man shoved a dark hood over his head, plunging him into darkness.
Armin screamed and thrashed against their hold.
“Let me go!
Where are you taking me?
Let me go, you bastards!”
They dragged him forward like a ragdoll as he screamed and fought against his constraints.
Confusion warred with his terror.
He hadn’t even had a chance to explore the beautiful house and adjust to his new surroundings or finish his glass of wine before being ripped away.
Was the man still punishing him?
Didn’t he promise to stop if he was good?
Was he angry because he had demanded not to be touched again?
But the man had just brought him warm food and tended to his wounds with a bandage.
Why was he still being treated like a criminal?
The contradiction made his mind race.
The sharp click of a car door jolted him out of his thoughts.
It sounded like a large van.
Suddenly, he was shoved hard into it, landing with a heavy thump on the floorboards.
The heavy door slammed shut, and the engine roared to life as the vehicle sped down the road.
Throughout the long journey, Armin’s mind spun out of control, imagining the worst possible outcomes.
His thoughts inevitably shifted back to his brother.
Was he safe?
Or had he been captured just like the madam Margaret had threatened?
Was that why they were moving him?
Was he being dragged right back to the brothel—back to that God-forsaken den of vipers and the hellbound witch who ran it?
A ragged gasp escaped his lips, his entire frame trembling at the thought.
The abrupt stop of the vehicle cut his agonizing thoughts short.
The back doors flung open, and he was hauled out into the open air.
He felt himself lifted completely off the ground and thrown over a broad, strong shoulder.
The guard marched briskly.
A door opened and shut, followed by another, and then a third door.
Finally, after a long march, he was tossed carelessly onto the hard floor like a sack of potatoes.
The door clicked shut behind the retreating footsteps of the guards.
Armin groaned in pain, the tight ropes digging into his raw wrists while the soreness in the heat of his core flared up.
Wriggling uncomfortably, he managed to twist into a sitting position.
Behind him, a pair of strong hands suddenly began working on the knots until the rope fell away.
Armin instinctively pulled his arms forward, rubbing his chafed skin to soothe the ache.
The hood was yanked off his head.
A blinding flash of sunlight flooded his vision, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut before slowly blinking them open against the harsh glare.
Sitting across from him behind a polished desk, leaning back in her leather armchair, was the last person he ever wanted to see: Madam Margaret.
He was right back in the place he hated most.
She held a smoking pipe in her left hand, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of gray smoke into the air.
Armin’s eyes darted around the room.
It was the same office where she had bragged about her bounty hunters and announced she had sold him off.
The guard who had dragged him that night stood right behind him now. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Madam Margaret rose from her chair and walked toward him, puffing on her pipe.
As if on command, her guard gripped Armin’s head, forcing his face upward to look at her.
She exhaled smoke directly into his face with a cruel sneer, then strolled toward the window.
Her long red silk dress pooled elegantly at her feet, and she adjusted the fur shawl draped over her shoulders, moving with the arrogant pride of a peacock.
The guard released his grip, but Armin’s eyes remained locked on her.
“The news of your rebellion reached me in good tidings, Armin,” she said, her voice dripping with irritation as she looked out the window.
“Did you think you were sent there to play around?”
She turned sharply to face him.
“Ivy was my best girl.
Since you killed her, isn’t it only right that you take her place?”
“It wasn’t me!
I didn’t kill her!” Armin shot back, staring directly into her eyes, refusing to back down from the false accusation.
Margaret stared at him in silence for five agonizing seconds before breaking into a mocking, high-pitched laugh, throwing her head back.
“Remind me who the murderer was again—your brother, right?
Well, what difference does it make?
You are twins, and you are going to pay for his sins in full just because I say so.”
She turned and began walking elegantly back toward her desk.
“But first, we have to do things properly.
In this establishment, actions beget reactions.
You taint my business through rebellion?
You get punished.
You look me in the eye without permission?
Rebellion—you get punished.
You talk back to me?
Rebellion—you get punished.” She chanted the last words with rhythmic malice, punctuated by a cold laugh.
Armin bared his teeth, muttering an inaudible curse under his breath.
Margaret simply waved her hand with nonchalance as she sank back into her leather chair.
The guard grabbed Armin roughly by the arm and hauled him to his feet.
Armin didn’t resist this time; he just wanted to escape her suffocating presence.
But as they marched down the corridor, passing the pink room where he had previously stayed, Armin tried to pull back.
“Wait, we’re passing the room,” Armin whispered, trying to alert the guard.
“You aren’t staying there anymore,” the guard replied flatly, continuing to drag him along.
“Why?” Armin asked, fear spiking again.
“Actions beget reactions,” the guard quoted.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are going somewhere to be punished.
To be disciplined.
To be trained.”
Armin froze mid-step.
The guard pulled, but Armin dug his bare heels into the floor, shaking his head frantically in absolute terror.
“No!
I’m not a slave, you can’t do this to me!
I’ve done nothing wrong!” Tears spilled over his cheeks, his entire body vibrating with panic.
He looked up at the guard’s stoic face.
“Please, I’m innocent!
You have to believe me!”
The guard remained completely expressionless.
His large fingers dug into Armin’s skin as he pulled him along like a sacrificial lamb being dragged to the slaughter.
Armin fought back with every ounce of his remaining strength, but his small frame was no match for the guard’s power.
Frustrated by the resistance, the guard stopped abruptly, swept Armin off his feet, and hoisted him roughly over his shoulder.
Marching forward into the dark lower levels of the building.
“I’m innocent!” Armin sobbed.
“We’ll see about that.”
The door was opened.
The man walked inside the room and flung Armin into an armchair positioned in the center of the room.
There was a single red bulb hanging loosely from the dark ceiling.
The room was dim, almost dark, and smelled of sweat and unwashed bodies.
The floor was wet with a liquid that glistened under the red light, and it smelled foul.
Was it blood?
Armin shut his eyes closed in horror, slowly opened them again, and looked around in fright.
The walls were painted black, and there was no window.
The only exit was the unusually small door that they had come through.
There was nothing else in the room apart from a table in the far corner.
The guard restrained his ankles and wrists with cuffs to the chair and blindfolded him with a black piece of cloth.
Without saying a word to him, the guard marched to the door, opened it, and shut it behind him.
Armin’s body went rigid with fear, his ears straining to capture any sound in the darkness that surrounded him.
He sat on edge as time dragged by slowly.
Yet, there was no sound—no voice, no creak, or squeak.
At last, his instincts began to relax a little, and he fell asleep in the chair.
A splash of cold water jolted him out of his sleep.
He yelped in a loud voice and tried to escape.
The restraints binding him tight to the chair made him come crashing sideways onto the ground with the chair.
He was pulled up from the ground and settled back into his sitting position.
The blindfold was torn from his face.
A woman was standing in front of him, clad in a dark red nylon bodysuit.
Her black hair was packed up in a sleek ponytail, bright red lipstick was smeared on her lips, and her eyes were done up in black eyeshadow with hilariously long lashes.
Her nails were polished a fiery red.
“How dare you sleep in my room?” she snorted, looking down at him as she dropped the bucket, which had held the water she poured on him, onto the ground.
Armin sneezed loudly, shaking his hair to remove the water.
She moved closer to him, grabbed his chin, and pinned his head up.
A wild smile crept onto her lips.
“A fine one this time.” Armin eyed her with disgust.
“What’s your name, pretty boy?”
“Armin,” he replied.
“Now Armin, this isn’t something personal.
I like my boys fine like you, but I have to train you to fit into the industry.
Do you understand?”
“I’m not interested!”
SMACK!
An unexpected slap crossed Armin’s cheek.
He winced in pain as he looked up at her.
She walked toward the table, her red nylon heels clinking on the wet floor.
“Rule number one: you only answer when asked, and you must answer politely.”
She lifted a leather leash from the table, smiled sadistically at him, and cat-walked back to him.
Armin’s breath hitched in his throat, his body preparing for what he hated the most—pain and violence.
“You can call me Mistress Delilah, pretty boy.”
Armin lowered his head and shut his eyes tight, bracing for impact as the harsh leash came down on bare skin.