A/N: Hey guys! I know it's been long, and I know I have another story I should be working on, but this idea came to me and wouldn't let me sleep until it was written. And I apologize for my life getting in the way of my time on this site. So...

If you're curious, this idea came from working ten hours at the animal shelter, reading a book called Captive in the Dark, and overly thinking about a fanfiction called "The Waker's Light" (I know some of you know it…man, that story messes with you.) So, I'm not stealing much in the way of concept from any of these. but combine all those and this is what I got. So this is my take on another huge issue in society, one that most people don't know much about…human trafficking.

Yeah, leave it to me to write about another huge and dark issue.

For now, the story is rated T. But I think it might move to M sooner than later, depending on how graphic I get. But if this content is too disturbing for you, please do not read it. If you really don't like it, please don't read it. Constructive criticism is welcome, but please if you hate it, keep it to yourself. I'm going far outside my comfort zone with this story and into a territory I'm not comfortable with. But as writers, we have the freedom to explore new things. That's all I'm doing, I'm trying something new.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything I mentioned above, or Les Miserables.

Please enjoy!

In the Darkest Corner

Chapter 1

Twinkling like a nighttime star, the light flickers, shudders, and blinks. The low buzz radiating from it is finally what causes my eyes to part. With the crust piled in the corners, opening them is painful. But when the pain subsides, or when I simply realize it no more, I sit up gingerly, leisurely taking my time on the rickety cot. The thin blanket slips to my thighs and I fall back against the wall behind me, chilling my bare back on the cold concrete stone.

The damn orange light keeps winking at me. It's leering at me, watching me sleep. I stay still under its ogling glare, my own black eyes challenging it back. I hate that light, yet I love it like a drug the same way. For so long it has been the only light I have ever known, the only star, the only sun, the only moon. That light is the only way I know how long a day is, from the moment they turn it on in the morning, to the moment they turn it off at night. The light keeps me sane.

Unless it has been a lie the entire time, unless they keep the light on at night and shut it off during the day? Perhaps that has always been the case? Perhaps they have been lying to me?

My hands clutch the sides of my head, threading through dirty locks, squeezing like a snake. Stop over-thinking, I tell myself. It won't do any good. I release my hair with a panting breath, enough to fully wake from my half-slumbering state.

Now I'm awake, but still with no motivation to move. Because, what does it matter? What am I to amount to in this eight-by-eight room? My cell is made entirely of concrete. I guess all the cells are. The floor is more black than gray, accumulating dust, dirt, and gravel throughout the years. In the lefthand corner, where I sit, lives my cot and my only blanket. The righthand corner houses a toilet and a roll of tubeless toilet paper that sits above it. Three of the walls are solid, but the wall in front of me is made entirely of steel bars with one section that slides open when they want entrance in. Beyond the bars is another concrete wall and beyond that? I suppose freedom. There is nothing else in the room worth mentioning. There are no windows, no furniture, no other signs of life. The only other thing that matters is the orange flickering light in the hallway, shining what minuscule light it gives off into my cell. But even still, that light is not nearly enough to reach me in the farthest corners of the cell. The corners are my protection, they are my true darkness, my only friend.

Sitting in the opposite corner of the one I'm in is a tray with a bowl on top, a spoon lying by its side, and a plastic cup. I didn't hear them deliver breakfast? Did I really sleep for that long? It's odd that the sound of the drop-down metal door did not wake me. Most mornings it does. Whatever the case, I crawl from my cot and out from under the warm safety of my blanket. Immediately, the air hits my warm naked body, covering my skin in goosebumps. Yet, I continue toward the wall of gray bars, closer to the tray. I step on strewn pieces of gravel that have found their way into my cage from dirt floor beyond the concrete bars—later I'll use those pieces of gravel as entertainment, tossing them across the room or positioning them into letters. For now, I'll check what's in the bowl.

Peering my head over it, I squat down, pinching the soles of my calloused feet on the tiny pebbles. One hand picks up the spoon and twirls the mushy porridge around the bowl. I plunge in a deep spoonful, only to bring it to my nose. When the stench of it hits my nostrils, I instantly dump the spoonful back into the bowl; it lands with a plop. I reach for the cup next and quickly drink all the water inside. The water leaves a metallic taste in my mouth, but it's better than the scratchy feeling in my throat before.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of a door slam and the crunch of boots on gravel. I scramble back to my darkness as fast as possible, diving onto the cot and tucking myself into a ball. I press my knees to my chest, my thin arms clutching my legs tightly...and I listen. The chomping of the gravel gets closer and soon I can hear voices. But as I listen closer, there is not only one set of footsteps, but two. I push my eye sockets into her kneecaps and squeeze myself tighter. I know they will pass by. As long as I stay still, as long as I make no sound, as long as I keep hold of the darkness like a blanket, they will walk right by. They will not stop. The second set of footsteps will presume it is an empty cell. He will keep walking.

"See here, sir," says that slimy voice. I know that voice all too well. I know the gruffness, the sharpness, the rasp of it, how fitting it is to his rough touch. Right now they are stopped at another cell, one close by, one right next to mine. "This one is from Thailand. She came just a few months ago. Knows a lot already. She is the most submissive one we have, she won't give you any trouble."

"Does she speak English?" a new voice asks. This voice, though austere, sounds gentle, like it's restrained, contemplative.

I lift my head, silently begging him to keep talking. I find myself loving the sound his words make.

"No, only Thai," the slimy one answers. "But that only makes things better." I can hear the smile in his chuckle. It's disgusting.

The scuffing of gravel makes me tuck my head back down again. The sound is so loud.; it's right in front of me as if it is a train passing by. I wait for it to fade, for it to be safe. But as one set of footsteps continues, one stops.

"What about her?"

My heart shoots to my throat, pounding so loud, ringing throughout my mind. It's all I can hear, and suddenly, I can't hear them any longer. How had they seen me? No one ever noticed me. Slowly, I lift my head in just the slightest. It is that moment, I am met with two pairs of eyes staring deeply at me.

One man, the one who belongs to the slimy voice is the guard. Brujon. I hate him. He's big, gruesome. With black hair in patches along his skull, one eye seemingly bigger than the other, and tanned skin from Middle Eastern descent, he stand over six feet tall. But the other man beside him is the one who baffles me. In the glow of the orange light, he looks almost angelic. His skin is pale, looking as soft as sand. His clothes are clean; a crisp navy suit, a white shirt, a dark blue tie. The slick flaxen hair on his head looks like a halo and the scruff running along his cheek and chin only heighten his appearance.

I can't stare for long, though. It's only a second that I saw them and witnessed the most beautiful human I had ever seen. Until today, I thought the Keeper was the most beautiful. I thought he was handsome. But looking at this strange new man, his perfect build, his perfect face, not one imperfection, the Keeper cannot even compare.

"What about her?" Brujon asks with a scoff. "She's the Keeper's favorite."

"Does she have a name?" the mystery man asks. Brujon lets out a huff and steps to the side of the gray bars. I hear him slip the card from the wall. He reads aloud what it says. "EGB096," he says.

"But no name?"

"Just a number. The Keeper probably knows her real name."

"Can I ask her?"

"She doesn't speak." I peek out above my knees to see Brujon look me up and down with scrutinizing eyes, the bars our only barrier. "This one's trouble. I've got one you'll like better."

As Brujon turns to walk away, the man roots his feet. "Can you find out her name for me?"

"The Keeper's not in today." His voice is as cold as the revolver holstered to his belt. "This one down here is more your taste." Brujon turns to walk off again. "This girl over here's been trained well, knows a lot, puts up fights sometimes to keep things interesting—"

The angelic man points to me. "I'd like to see her."

Brujon grimaces, his eyes returning to my small balled form huddled on top of the cot. "You won't be impressed. She's not worth the trouble."

"Take her out."

My heart is quickening with each word they spoke. Suddenly, I'm on Brujon's side, wishing him to keep trying to persuade the strange man's mind, for whatever reason he has. The only thing I know is that it is better to live a safe life in the cage, a life already accustomed to, and not one outside under someone else's ownership.

"I don't think—"

"What? Is she not for sale?" the man asks. "Because if she's not, I don't see a sign. And she sure-as-hell then shouldn't be on display with everyone else who is." His tone drips with some kind of authority I had never heard before, not even from Brujon. The sound of it makes my blood run cold. I can only imagine what it does to Brujon. "So go ahead. Take her out for me. I want to see her."

Brujon sends the nastiest look my way. "Let me get the others," he mumbles. Then the sound of his feet disappears down the hallway and the crunch of his boots fades away.

It falls silent once again. Only the low buzz of my flickering light remains.

"What's your name?"

I lift my head, against my better judgement, and stare at him blankly.

"Do you have a name?" he asks. He takes a step closer to my cage, a hand resting tiredly against the metal bars. He gives heed, waiting for me to answer. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" His eyes look kind, but his voice tells me otherwise.

I will not easily trust him. But I nod slowly.

"Then tell me your name."

My name is the only part of myself left. It is all of a life outside the cell that has survived. It's the only thing that's mine. I'm holding it sacred. I will cherish it as my only possession, not to be shared with anyone. Once it is left in the open, touched by the light, it will be destroyed just as everything else of mine has been. The Keeper knows my name, but it is only by someone else's doing that he knows. I have never told him and the one thing he gave me was that secret to keep. He has never told anyone. He may have said it to me, but he never shared it. All that prevailed was my name and that private part inside me, a part I did not even fathom could still exist. It must have been God's gift to me, to let me keep this innocence. The Keeper gave me one gift and God gave me another. And so I hold onto those two things as the most precious gems in the entire world.

I shake my head.

"Why not?"

Fear struck somewhere in my gut. He is demanding a reason. I have none to give. Quickly, I bury my head back into my knees, shrugging closer to the wall, deeper into the corner, wishing to make myself shrink. I want to be invisible.

He chuckles.

The bastard chuckles at me. He thinks I'm amusing. He's mocking me.

Cutting off his breathy laughs, all of a sudden, the heavy sound of thunder comes rolling down the hallway. It is a storm upon the dreaded gravel. I'm ready to cry. They're coming for me.

With the shake of a key, Brujon slams open the door of metal bars. The mystery man stands back against the concrete wall, safe in the hallway. Brujon leads the way in, flanked by the two other guards—Claquesous and Gueulemer.

"You might want to look away," Brujon tells the man resting against the wall.

I press deeper into the corner, burying my head farther between my knees, using the wall as an aid. Fleetingly, I wish that in my haste I had crawled under her blanket. I could've used that as a barrier to hide. But now I'm sitting on top of it. There is no way to hide under it now.

A hand seizes my arm, a hand belonging to none other than Brujon.

I gasp, keeping my screams hidden, trapped somewhere in my chest. I thrash about, arms flailing, waving. I pant and grunt as I am pulled to my feet. But more hands attack me. One takes hold of my other arm, one grabs a handful of my hair. I claw at them, nails bared. I manage to scrape one, nevermind who, but that is all I can do. They yank me off the cot. Defiantly, I will not stand. I bend my legs when they drop me lower to the ground, such as a child would do. They scrape my knees along the floor before they hoist me higher again. I don't wince at the pain.

"Stand," Brujon commands. He gives me another shake of her arm, squeezing enough to leave a bruise.

Unwillingly, I obey. My whole body stands rigid, my chest rising and falling erratically. Each hold onto me in someway, keeping me upright. In a moment, Brujon's rough hands let go of me and Claquesous's leave my hair to hold my arm. Brujon stands in front of me now and pulls out a black strap coiled like a snake from his back pocket. The end of the strap holds a clip. Graciously, he holds the little lever down and brings it closer to my neck. With a small simple click, he snaps the strap onto the metal loop at the front of my collar.

Only then did I remember it was on. The collar has been on for so long, I didn't even feel it anymore. When Brujon gives a tug forward and my neck snaps toward him without even the slightest resistance, I fully remember it's there.

He turns his back, clutching the strap—the leash—in his hand and pulls me forward. The hands holding onto me still have not let go. They push me onward, guiding me along behind Brujon.

Brujon makes eye contact with the man and gestures to the leash. "In case she runs," he says, and leads me on down the hallway. "I like to say the girls have a cage personality," he continues, "and a home personality." He chuckles to himself. "Usually when you bring 'em home, they're less likely to try things. They normally calm down."

"And if she doesn't calm down?"

"Return her."

My head automatically bows to the gravel and dirt I walk upon. Every step hurts my feet, like pacing on tiny daggers, each one more painful than the last. The callouses on my soles give little protection from the bite of the pebbles. I hear the shuffle of other girls as I pass. I hear them crawling about in the darkness, watching, waiting to catch a glimpse of me as I walk by. Some call out to me in foreign tongues, some scream that they want out, some hit against the bars, some try to grab me. Still, she I am undeterred by them. I keep focus on walking.

They lead me to a door. Immediately, I'm thankful to step on smooth concrete, it feels like stepping into a cool pool for the first time all summer. But the luminescence of the room hits me like the rays of the summer sun; beaming, obnoxious, unwanted. I curl away from the white light, recoiling in on myself, shutting it out. The leash pulls my head up with a yank, but my eyes stay closed. The door slams shut behind me.

They make me stand in the center of the room while I adjust to the light. My eyes burn, encasing my head in unbearable pain. I claw at them with her fingers, pressing on them to abate the pain. But with each blink of my eyes, the pain lessens. When I can open my eyes fully, I'm standing by myself, the leash now in the hand of the mystery man. He is gazing at me, his face set straight. He looks devilishly handsome now that I can see every part of him, nothing is casted in shadows. Brujon is standing behind the man and to the left of me, in front of the door, stands Claquesous and Gueulemer.

"She's pretty," the man says to Brujon with a tilt of his head. He drops the leash, letting it fall before my body, appearing as a line, splitting me in half. "Does she know English?"

"She does," Brujon replies. "Understands it, I know. I think she can speak it. She just chooses not to. She also understands French."

The man looks over to Brujon with an inquisitive brow. "How do you figure?"

"A man came once. Picked her out to look at. Hardly spoke a lick of English, but he tried. He had a slip of the tongue, didn't know the English words and said something to her in French. She did what he said. After that, we told him to talk to her in French. She did all his commands."

"And what? This French man didn't like her?"

"She bit him."

He chews on this fact for a moment longer and then smirks to himself about it. "Has she been trained?" he asks.

"Orally," Brujon answers. "Other than that, no."

"At least there's some use for that mouth of hers then."

Brujon scoffs, cracking his knuckles back. "I told you I had one you'd be more impressed with. This one doesn't know anything, plus she's a hassle."

"And yet there must be a reason why she's the Keeper's favorite." The man takes a step toward me.

I visibly shutter. My knees are shaking, the leash trembling from my neck.

He lifts a hand and touches my face.

I jump back instinctively, but immediately, he grabs the leash and pulls me toward him. I don't have a chance to run. He's too quick for me. The tug crashes me into his body, his chest stone, as hard as marble. His clothes feel soft against my skin, the feeling, the quick motion, it's all so surreal. His hand stays on my cheek for a long time before it slowly begins tracing circles.

"Don't be so quick to run," he tells me. His thumb brushes over my trembling lips and then his index finger traces down my throat, stopping at the black collar. He takes a step back and his eyes rove the rest of me, trailing down then back up then down again.

I'm standing stark, clad in nothing but my skin and the tight black collar around my neck. My skin is more brown than it was white, visible dirt smeared across it, looking remarkably like bruises in some places. I'm sure he can tell. But my knees hold real bruises, dark purple, fresh. And now they are cut with blood trickling down. My body is gaunt. My ribs, my shoulders, my collar bone all visibly protruding. Deep hallows form beneath. My cheeks are sunken in, my skin seeming to sag from my face. My lips are drawn together; tight, cracked and dried. My eyes stay to the floor, I'm sure they look nearly black to him. But I know they're color, a deep brown, the same as my hair. Though my hair is full, long, stretching down to the middle of her back, it is stained with grease, falling limp where it should be voluminous. I'm sure I look more like a skeleton than a girl, like I would break if touched me the wrong way, if he squeezed too tight, or if he held me too long.

"How much does she weigh?"

Brujon shrugs. "One twenty."

The man's eyes darken. "She barely looks a hundred. Do you feed her?"

Tiredly, Brujon runs a finger over his chin as if it's obvious. "All the girls get meals three times a day, but it's up to them if they choose to eat it. This one doesn't eat much. I know that." He grunts eloquently. "I know the Keeper goes in and feeds her by hand. He makes sure she doesn't starve herself."

"She's stubborn?"

"She's trouble."

The man takes a casual walk around me. Once behind me, he stops. A quick hand hooks around my bicep. He squeezes. I flinch. He pushes her hair aside. "Bend over," he says.

I become rigid once again.

At my hesitation, he reaches around in front of me and yanks the leash down. My body snaps forward, my ass high in the air, open to him. With the other hand, he trails a finger down my spine, moving and sliding over every bone until he reaches the crack in my buttocks. "Good." He nods once. "Stand up." When I stand erect, he looks over to Brujon. "You think she can keep up with me?" he asks.

Simply, Brujon shrugs, falling back against the wall, getting comfortable to watch us. "I don't know. I've never had a go at her, can't really say. The Keeper likes her for some odd reason. He doesn't let us at her."

The man finishes up the rest of his walk, completing a full circle. He stands in front of me again, eying me. "Open up," he says.

I don't respond, I don't move except for the involuntary inhaling and exhaling of her chest.

He grasps my jaw in one swift motion, holding it between his fingers. He pushes my cheeks together. "I said open up." When I still make no move to comply and I simply purse my lips together, he shoves his fingers between my lips, forcing my mouth apart.

It only takes a second for me to respond. I thrash about recklessly, shoving him away with both hands. I try to bite his fingers still in close contact with my mouth. But soon, I am shoved myself, falling to the floor, bony limbs scattering around.

Claquesous and Gueulemer charge in. One punches me in the side of my face, the cheekbone below my eye, before I have a chance to stand. Gueulemer clutches my wrists in both his hands as Claquesous delivers a boot to my ribs.

I whine, a noise like a cry. It is the loudest sound that's come from me this entire time.

"Enough."

The words cause both Claquesous and Gueulemer to lift their heads, as well as mine. I look to the man in the suit who is boring his eyes at them.

"Her aggression comes from fear," he says. "She is not a menace, she is scared. And she has every right to be scared." He steps toward me, his eyes now looking right into mine. I can't find the strength to look away, he is captivating me. "But so long as you do what I ask, I will not hurt you." He sends a nod my way. "And I will make sure they do not hurt you either." Slowly, he bends down and offers me his hand.

I raise my lip in disgust, and instead, spit on his shiny shoes.

Brujon lets out a tiny scoff. "In answer to your question, sir, I think she won't have any trouble keeping up with you. She might even make it fun."

I stand to my feet on her own, very capable to do something for myself. When I pick my head up and look directly into the man's venomous eyes, he propels his hands forward and shoves me back to the ground.

Brujon's laughing ended abruptly. Claquesous and Gueulemer even fell back a few steps.

I fall hard. Both his shoes, one riddled with spit, now stand beside my head. "Wipe them off," he says.

I look up to him, worried for the first time.

"Don't make me tell you another time," he says, "or it won't end well for you."

With a bowed head, I rub my forearm over his shoes, my saliva now sticking to my skin rather than drying on his shoes.

"Get up." I listen to the command and instantly, his head whips to Brujon. "Looks to me she can be trained." He moves so close to me now that his shirt brushes against the tiny peaks of my breasts. "So let's try this again," he says. "Open up."

Reluctantly, I follow orders and minimally part my mouth open.

In the next second, his fingers ram inside, shoving my jaw wider. He presses on the back of my teeth and lifts all parts of my lips, touching my gums wherever he wanted. Finally, he removes his fingers and wipes them off on the dirty skin of my shoulder. "Good girl," he says to me. He turns to face Brujon again. "She needs dental work. I can see at least three cavities plus gingivitis." He pauses. "You said she has been trained only orally?"

Brujon grits his teeth. "That's what I said."

The man before me grimaces, then a breath falls out with a scoff. His sneer says what his words won't. "So how did you get her?" he then asks.

"She was a European acquisition."

The corner of his mouth rises. "I'm listening."

"That's what her number stands for. E, Europe. GB, Great Britain."

"And the zero-nine-six?"

"She's the ninety-sixth girl to come through this trade from Great Britain."

"So what happened?"

Brujon lets out a disgruntled breath, readjusting himself on the wall. "The Keeper was over in Great Britain," he starts. "Word got round. This father came up to him at a tavern, said he needed money bad. He had a daughter. His eldest at the time. Her flower intact. The Keeper bought her. Paid thirty for her. That was it." He says it quickly, nonchalantly. "The first and only time we've ever had a father sell us a girl."

The man had watched me as Brujon told the tale. I lift a hand to my face and quickly brush a tear away before it could fall. I miss the tear that falls from the other eye.

"She wasn't taken?" he asks.

"She was sold."

The words hit him. They're out in the open now. "How long ago was that?"

"About three years, I'd say. She was fifteen."

"She's only eighteen now?"

"Only?" Brujon snickers to himself. "The Keeper's been waiting three years for her to turn eighteen."

"Why?" He looks to Brujon, brows raised.

"She's legal for the sale."

He tilts his head to the side ever so slightly.

"The flower sale." Brujon spoke of it as if it were obvious, but seeing the still puzzled look

on the man's face, in turn, Brujon's forehead wrinkles in thought. "What was your name again, sir?"

"I haven't shared it," he responds. "Confidentiality is my upmost concern. Surely even you could understand why. Now tell me, why would the Keeper care about a flower sale?"

Brujon grunts. "She's still a flower."

His eyes double before they narrow again. "You really expect me to believe that after three years here, she's still a virgin?"

"Don't believe me?" Brujon asks, rolling his eyes. "Fine then, make her lie down, have a look for yourself. I told you the Keeper won't let us at her, he keeps this one special."

"Why would he do that?"

"Do you realize what an eighteen year old virgin would go for at a flower sale?"

The man stops. He falls so still, so suddenly. Then his head picks up and there is a new glimmer in his eye. "How much?"

"With this one, I'd have to speak with the Keeper fir—"

"And what if I paid you more than what you'd get at the flower sale?"

"I'd still have to—"

"Of course, the price would decrease because of the dental work, she wouldn't be as profitable at the sale. But her bones work well, no scoliosis, and she certainly has a fire. I think she'd be a good match for me." He leans toward me again and gives a whiff. "But she desperately needs a good grooming...and clothes." He stands behind me again, eyes meeting Brujon over my shoulder, hands running down both my arms. "Alright, how about one fifty."

"A hundred fifty thousand?"

"Only if that's more than what you'd make at the sale?"

"The Keeper was looking for half a million."

The man scoffs. He picks up his hand and brushes the side of my cheek with it. He tucks a lock of greasy hair behind my ear. "With the amount of work she needs, not to mention her behavior and training, I won't pay more than three."

"Three fifty?"

I can hear the man grin. "Fine, but not a penny more."

Brujon is speechless.

The man looks down to me. He touches the dried clean streaks running down the grimy skin on my face. He presses his lips to my cheek and whispers, "I'll take her."

. . .

For a summer's night in Mexico, it was certainly freezing. The air temperature barely reached seventy this time of midnight. But he knew just how to warm himself up. He knew she would be cold as well.

He sauntered his way into the warehouse and descended down flights of stairs only to be met with his associates, already deep into a second bottle of rum and a hand of blackjack.

"Montparnasse! What took you so long?" Brujon asked over a puff of his cigar. "It's midnight."

The man in question quickly surveyed around the room, its only occupants himself, his right hand man, Brujon, and then Claquesous and Gueulemer. "Girl gave me more trouble than she's worth. Decided to let her sweat out the night in the truck before I bring her to a room."

"Where'd you get this one from?"

He leaned against the table, eyes dropping to the cards in their hands. "Arizona," he said. "Followed her all night, she left the club drunk. Simple."

"Any connections?"

"None. Both parents are junkies."

Brujon chuckled. "Good." He looked over his hand and motioned to Claquesous for another card. "So she gave you trouble? That where you got the fat lip?"

Montparnasse ran a hand over his face. "Got me with the point of her shoe. She paid for it, though."

Brujon tossed a nod to the liquor cabinet. "I left you a scotch. And oh, why don't you look in the briefcase while you're over there?"

Casually, Montparnasse walked toward the liquor cabinet, lined with different bottles from bourbon to whiskey to moonshine and topped off with a cutting board. A listless hunk of cheese and a long loaf of bread sat on top of it. But sitting at the foot of the standing cabinet was a briefcase. He bent down on one knee and clicked the switch. When he flipped open the top, his face fell.

"Three hundred fifty thousand," Brujon said, his words dripping with pride. "The boys and I counted it twice."

"Where did you get this?" His deathly green eyes met Brujon's.

"Sold a girl."

Montparnasse smirked, quickly rising to his feet. "Either that man knew something we didn't or he was a blasted idiot. My guess is on the latter."

"Knew you'd be impressed."

"I'm pleased," he said. "Maybe I should leave you alone here more often." He turned to the liquor cabinet and broke half of the loaf of bread sitting there with a block of cheese. "Now if you'll excuse me, there is someone who needs my attention."

"Wait, 'Parnasse." Brujon jumped to his feet. "I poured you a scotch, just sit and have a drink first."

His eyes narrowed. "How long ago did you pour it?" he asked.

Brujon shrugged in bewilderment. "Guess a half hour ago."

"Then it can wait another." No more words and Montparnasse barged out of the room, pacing down a long hallway, tapping the thin bread loaf in his palm.

At the end of the hallway was a steel door. With a great push, the door opened and the concrete turned to gravel and dirt. He continued walking, not glancing into any cells as he passed them by. He knew which one he would stop at when he got there. He knew just where she would be hiding. Automatically, knowingly, his feet stopped. He faced her cell and peered between the bars. The darkness crowded his vision, he couldn't make her out in the dim overhead light. But he knew the corners were her friend, he knew she was just below the surface of darkness.

As he pushed open the cell door and entered, it felt odd. He didn't hear anything. Usually, her breathing turned sharp. This time, there was nothing. He clucked his tongue and walked toward the corner that housed the cot. But once in the shadows, the cot was not there. She was not there. He spun around. The toilet, stationed to the wall, was the only object left in the cell. Everything else was cleaned out. He turned frantic.

He called her name. The rare word was a whisper; a whisper he knew would lure her out. His tone was soft, yet strong enough to make her crawl from the darkness and out into his waking light.

There was no answer.

He spun about again, thinking he might have missed her. But where could she hide in here? There was no where to hide from him. Suddenly, it hit him. The bread fell from his hands, onto the cold concrete, now becoming food for the rats. He stormed out of the cell, back to Brujon and the mere memory of the briefcase.

He barged open the door, interrupting their little card game once more.

"What the hell did you do?"

Like a cornered animal, Brujon clambered to his feet at the sound of the entrance and the six bellowing words. In a second, a mask grew over his face, replacing his dread. He steeled his expression. "You were never going to get half a million for her," he said, his tone was strong but desperately trying to hide his shaky words. He backed away from the table as Montparnasse drifted toward him. "I went ahead and cut our losses. Three fifty was the best we'd get for her. She was trouble. No one would want her. Hell, no one ever liked her when they looked at her."

Montparnasse kept drawing closer, the distance steadily closing. "Cut our losses?" he asked. His head tilted to the side, his brow cocking. "She was no loss to cut."

Brujon's back hit the wall, his hands spread out against it, the fear in his eyes doubled. "'Parnasse..."

With a shred of space between them now, Montparnasse could see Brujon's mask falling fast, melting by the heat of his own furious gaze. "Tell me," he said. "All those years ago, who was she sold to first?"

Brujon was silent only a moment. "You, but she—"

"And whose did that make her to sell?"

"Yours, but—"

His fist slammed into the wall beside Brujon's head, the thunder of it rolling through the confined room. "If you knew she was mine, what gave you the damn right to sell her?"

Brujon flinched. "I thought it was...the sale was coming up—"

Teeth grit, his jaw tightened. "I was never going to sell her in the damn flower sale."

"But I thought—" He was silenced. The sickening crack of Montparnasse's knuckles against his jaw was the final sound from his mouth.

Montparnasse shook his hand, the other still pinned flat to the wall beside Brujon's skull. "She was mine to sell, she was mine to keep." His eyes flamed. "She was all mine." He watched Brujon right himself up, shaking off the punch. "Who did you sell her to?"

"A man," he said, rubbing his bruising jaw.

"What was the man's name?"

Brujon gulped. "He didn't leave one. I asked, he never said."

The fury in his eyes enraged, engulfing his entire pupils. His right hand fisted again. "What did he look like?"

Brujon squirmed, drinking in Montparnasse's foul words. "Blonde. Wore a suit."

"Where did he come from?"

"The States somewhere."

"What time did he come today?"

Brujon thought a moment. "I guess he came around eleven, finally left by three when all was said and done."

"Nine hours," he mumbled under his breath, eyes dropping to the floor. "It's six to the border from here." A moment passed and his eyes wickedly shot up to Brujon. "So that was it?" he scoffed. "You let him drug her, had him pay you, and then he took her...and you didn't even call me?"

"I wanted you to see the money—"

"Dammit!" A look of rage took over Montparnasse's features. He whipped a pocket knife from his back pocket and flicked it open. Without even thinking, with quick motions and accuracy, he sliced Brujon's cheek.

It only took a second for the slice to well with blood before it spilled over down the side of his cheek. Blood dripped down the horizontal line from the corner of his eye to his nose. He barely cried out.

"Bring her back to me."

A/N: Feedback is welcome! :) Also, if you're confused, feel free to leave questions. Remember the story is just starting, all is not what you think. Don't think Enjolras is all he seems to be either.

Thank you so so much for reading!