The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (historical books to read txt) 📗

Ada, eyes still glimmering with rage, grabbed my neck and forced my head downward, toward the feet of the tattooed man. She squashed my face against his boots, their grime soiling my skin.

"Know your place before a man!" she hissed.

She held me there for five seconds before releasing me and stepping backward.

I pressed my back against the wall in a feeble attempt to distance myself from the men I was left with.

"The second reason you are here," the tattooed man went on, as if there had been no interruption, "is to assist us in sending a message to any other bitches like you who have managed to leech their way into Patrus."

He moved to me and, holding my hair, panned my head to the camera again. "Say hello," he whispered, his mouth inches from my ear. He snickered, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a strip of brown fabric with two holes gouged into it. His male companion produced the same and so did Ada. They tied them around their heads so that the upper halves of their faces were obscured but for their eyes.

Another man entered the room, both of them sporting similar masks… and one of them carrying a hot iron bar.

The man carrying the bar handed it to Ada. She waved it around before my face, taunting me with it, bringing it closer until its heat caused my skin to break out in a heavy sweat.

She gathered a strand of my hair and trailed it over the hot iron, singeing it and producing a sickening burning smell. She waved the frayed ends of my hair before my face, pressing them to my nostrils.

"Imagine what your skin will smell like."

She grabbed my arm and extended it before glancing at the camera. An oily smile glided across her face as she addressed the lens. "This is for every woman out there who thinks it's okay to shout back at her man."

She lowered the iron bar against my sensitive inner wrist.

My skin exploded in agony. A screech erupted from my throat. I was sure that I would pass out.

Still eyeing the camera, the woman went on, "For every woman who thinks she can cheat, or talk behind his back."

Another strike of the iron bar, a few inches further up my arm. Somehow, it was even worse this time, knowing what was coming. Tears spilled from my eyes as I struggled to break away from her grasp.

Still, she went on addressing the camera, "For every woman who thinks she knows better."

Another burn, climbing up my shoulder. My entire body, drenched in sweat, had begun to shake uncontrollably.

"And this," she said, in a lower voice, a terrifying sense of finality to her tone, "is for every bitch who thinks she's equal."

I was sure that the madwoman was going to strike me in the chest, maybe even drive the sharp end of the rod through my heart… So it came as a surprise when she stalled, and instead placed the rod down on the floor.

The runaway criminal standing behind Ada gave me a knowing smile, relishing my fear.

Bastard. I saw your cowardly ass run away from me back on that street.

He bent down to my level and I flinched as his hand gripped the side of my face, his calloused thumb touching my cheek.

"It's a shame," he said. "Look at you—young, blessed with good looks, a nice body… We don't treat all female visitors to Porteque like this, you know. Some of them we even make wives out of, like Ada. We found her at sixteen."

"Why are you telling me this?" I croaked.

He sighed. "I'm not telling you as much as I'm telling the women who will watch this."

He let go of my face and rose to his feet. He addressed his companions surrounding us. "Bring in the table."

One of the men exited and returned a few seconds later, pushing along a rickety steel table on wheels. It had wrist and ankle holds attached to either end of it. Ada manifested a key and freed me from my current chains one at a time. I immediately leapt for the door, but it was a hopeless endeavor. My captors crowded around me, wrestling me into submission. They dragged me to the table where they strapped me down. These restraints were tighter and it felt like they stopped the blood flowing to my feet and hands. Maybe that was the idea.

As they gathered around me, the runaway man spoke:

"Cut her."

I writhed as they reached into their belts and withdrew knives. They used the steel edges of the table to sharpen the blades, Ada on my right even gouging me in the thigh as she did so, deliberately careless.

These people are insane.

"Stop!" I begged. "Please, I'll do anything! Just stop!"

That I had resorted to begging these animals cut me to the core, deeper than any knife could. It felt like renouncing any semblance of dignity I had left.

These people needed to be lined up and shot. If only I had a gun. Ms. Dale's last-minute training would've actually been useful.

"How do you want to do this?" Ada asked the runaway. They appeared to have finished sharpening their knives.

The runaway, standing closest to my head, replied, "Same as the last."

His answer brought a dozen nightmarish visions to my mind. As their knives descended on me, all I could do was close my eyes and pray. I thought of Viggo, about the chance I’d never have to see him again, and about the mission and my lost opportunity to reunite with Tim.

As the blades began to press into me, piercing skin, a man yelled outside.

"EVACUATE!"

The door burst open and in stepped another man, face shining with sweat, eyes alight with alarm. "Wardens!" he panted.

The word sent relief rolling through my body.

"WHAT?" the runaway man yelled back. "Impossible! They can't have reached us so quickly!"

"They're here!" he insisted.

Ada and the men surrounding me swore. Shoving their knives back in their belts, they