A.N. This is my first time ever writing from Braeden's POV and I might switch off between her and Derek in later chapters... Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of it's characters!
Braeden can still remember the first time she felt small. Her whole life she'd been competing with her brothers-for attention, for awards, for space, for time. She'd always been weaker and skinnier but she'd never felt small. When they were strong, she was fast. When they were mean, she was devious. She'd always had an upper hand, even if it'd been different from theirs, she'd merely had to learn to use it. But in that room, with the rough fabric of the bed scratching into her skin and the coldness of the air searing the inside of her throat, she'd never felt smaller. When he'd hissed those three words in her face, she hadn't known how used to them she was going to become.
You're mine bitch.
She'd screamed and cried and fought back as much as she could manage until the man had blanketed her throat with his large hand. In a single motion that was so effortless she hated it, he'd cut off her entire air supply. As tears streamed down her face, she'd felt herself separate from her body. She wondered vaguely if this was what dying felt like. Maybe her soul would ascend to heaven and she'd never have to face this hell again. She stopped feeling his sweaty hands on her skin, stopped feeling the burning pain deep in her gut as he slammed into her, and stopped feeling the ache in her lungs when they were refused any form of air. She went numb to the feeling of… of what? Of anything, she figured. And when she returned to her body sometime later, a dull throbbing in her stomach and the taste of blood and vomit in her mouth, she still didn't truly feel it. She'd gone numb that day and she'd never fully come back from that.
Now, when they came for her, she obediently stood and followed without a word. She didn't speak much anymore. It was only to the other girls-the new ones, not the ones who were just as well trained as she was-that she sometimes spoke. When one reminded her brothers or of herself and she took pity on them. But it was rare and becoming more and more so. She didn't cry anymore either. Some part of her reasoned that something had happened while she'd been outside her body and it had broken her eyes to the point that she couldn't cry anymore. It wasn't physically possible. That was the easy explanation and she didn't want to think about it long enough to come to any other conclusion.
So when Moretti opened the door and screamed to get back, she didn't move. They had an agreement more or less and he didn't push her if she sucked his dick occasionally. The other girls hated her for it but she didn't care. When he screamed for B, she stood and followed him out the door with her eyes down. That was what they all called her because Braeden was too humanizing and bitch wasn't specific enough. As she followed Moretti, watching her bare feet shuffled on the off white carpet, she wondered what he wanted. It was an odd time of the day for a client-most came at night and lately had started paying to spend the whole night with her, which earned her some leniency-but it was too soon for Moretti's usual favors. If he tried to get her again this soon she was going to just brush him off.
"4C, bitch." Now that they were alone, bitch could only be directed at her and he used it freely, not wanting their power balance to become too close to that dangerous thing they called equality. She walked up to the door without question and knocked on the door-the same three steady knocks she'd had drilled into her since she could remember. That was what was expected, that was what she did.
The man who opened it was tall and skinny but his beard was familiar. Had he fucked her before? She couldn't remember... At this point they all blurred together to the point that she didn't even remember whether it was day or night. Not that it mattered because she never saw outside anymore. She dropped to her knees before he even told her too and ignored his hum of appreciation when he took in her naked body. It wasn't worth it to protest-all it ever got her was punishment. So she sucked, he pulled her hair, she didn't fight him, he fucked her, she made noise when he told her to, he choked her when she did. He came, she didn't. He watched her pull on the oversized shirt she'd gotten to wear from Moretti as compensation with a hungry look in his eyes but she shook her head. It wasn't that she could say no to him, though. She didn't have that kind of power over anyone, especially not a client. It was the clock on the wall, marked special to show hours and forty-five minute intervals because that was the amount of time a person could buy, that told him he was done. Not her.
She let herself lay on the bed for a minute or two longer than she probably should have but she was years past being able to give a damn. When Moretti came to retrieve her, he grabbed her by the collar of his shirt and ripped the material. When that didn't work, he grabbed her by her hair and yanked her into the hall on her knees. She just let him. Back in the room the girls all shared, she curled up in her corner and didn't look any of them in the eyes. Sadie came over at some point and snuggled into her side but she didn't move to accept the girl. She was sweet and only six but Braeden didn't feel like taking care of anyone at the moment-she was sick of taking care of people. That was what they always called what she did: "taking care of the clients". Regardless, she was sick of it. Fuck all of them. Fuck every human on Earth.
She was woken the next night around when she guessed it was getting dark and pulled out by Moretti but he soon turned her over to a man she didn't know. The way Moretti scuttled around him told her it was a boss. Not that she cared. He gave her clothes to wear and she didn't realize until she was following him diligently again that they were nice clothes-like nice clothes. Skinny blue jeans, boots, a white tanktop, and a black leather jacket. Something about the jacket and the boots felt familiar but she couldn't remember ever being allowed to dress like this. She was lost in that vague sense of something she should remember until they reached a heavy wooden door.
"You're going to work." She didn't nod but her agreement was assumed, because she had no other choice. "You're one of the good girls. You're going to start working bars and clubs for us." She stayed silent but her mind was slowly reeling. Bars? Clubs? Was business getting bad enough to risk letting her escape? Or was did they have that much confidence in their control over her?
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