Guarding Hope

For hours, Hope sat on her bed thinking about the week she had left until she became the property of a man bent on using her body for his own personal pleasure. Gross. She saw a portly, older man who had to be at least her father’s age. Nothing could make him less disgusting. Then to learn that she wouldn’t be his only one, but the one he fucked when he wasn’t fucking someone else.

She felt the lurch in her gut, sending her running to her en suite bathroom and retching her brains out. Deciding she’d rather live on the streets or in a shelter while she looked for employment in another state than be sold, she had to develop a plan of escape. First, she’d pack only what she could carry. That more than likely meant just her purse because her only avenue to run would be a moment alone away from her guards.

A knock at her door stopped her movements toward her closet. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, “Yes?” she quavered, her voice cracking and betraying her fears.

“Open the door, Hope,” her father demanded.

She opened it for him, or he’d find a reason to search her room. She learned a long time ago that he had no problem being cruel.

He only raised his fist to her once, but once was all it took for her to bend to his will. She’d managed to watch some YouTube videos on self-defense, but he’d monitored her internet and smashed her computer and phone. He shouted, “Fight me, you little bitch.” When she failed to act, he dragged her by her hair and punched her in the face. “See? You’re weak. Now you better learn your place.” Never again did she get an ounce of freedom.

He thundered into the room, slamming the door shut, locking it with a hard click before approaching her with visceral intent. He stopped inches from her face, causing her to flinch, which she would berate herself for later, and he said, “Monday you have an appointment with a doctor at the local clinic. It’s not my choice, but you will go. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” She wasn’t allowed to call him Dad or Father, although calling him either name now only made her stomach turn because he didn’t deserve that title and she wasn’t sure if he ever really had. He moved to the door and looked back at her with a smile.

“What for?” she asked, wondering if he would be bold enough to tell her. She knew that he couldn’t “damage” the merchandise, so she was safe to question him. Navarro wouldn’t like her coming to him with a busted lip or black eye.

He narrowed his eyes, raking them over her body. Without missing a beat, a sneer came over his face. “You’re being sold to the highest bidder. I need you inspected.”

Hope gasped in dismay, pretending to be shocked even as the words hit her like a sheet of ice. He meant to cut her, and he did—deep and unapologetically.

Seeing her pain had been like icing on the cake for him. He left the room with a sadistic grin of satisfaction and an itch to spend the money he’d already mentally been counting. Two million dollars was well more than what he thought she was worth, but he knew that negotiations had to start high.

Once his footsteps could be heard going down the stairs, Hope shook off the act she had given him. His words had already done the damage hours ago, but she had a part to play. And like the years Hope spent playing pretend all alone, she’d acted the scene flawlessly.

She dug into the closet to find her means to escape. What she loved about the mansion were the dozen hiding spots spread throughout the place. She’d learned of them in a short memo left behind by the previous owners that she conveniently shredded, telling not a soul. Digging into the space, she pulled out the money that she’d been saving for just this day. Five thousand dollars wasn’t a lot to live off, but it would be more than enough to escape her traffickers.

Chapter 2

The scorching sun beamed down onto the tent as Gage Gibson sat at his first cattle auction in over a decade. He pulled off his hat with a grunt, wiping the cooling sweat off his brow.

“Suits and cool offices have made you weak,” Colt McCain said, nudging Gage with his elbow. Standing at six-foot-four, Colt with the same broad chest and narrowed waist as Gage, the two could have been brothers instead of cousins.

“I’ll get used to it. Besides, your ass is just as sweaty.”

Gage Gibson happened to be one of the best prosecutors in Texas if he said so himself, which he often did, even if just to get a rise out of his friends. He’d gotten more criminal convictions than most because he dug deeper, but in the last two years it had become too draining. Weeks of trial for these judges to give leaner sentences. What was the point? he’d thought many times over. He’d been one of the chief prosecutors out of Austin, but politics had begun to shake his faith in the law so he made the break after clearing out his last caseload.