Chapter 29 An Ulterior Motive
Grace didn’t have a choice.
That was what she kept telling herself as she followed the woman into the small, weathered house at the edge of town. The building looked like it had been standing there for decades, the paint peeling in places, the porch sagging slightly under their weight.
The silver-haired man—whose name she still didn’t know—had made it clear she wasn’t welcome wherever they were going. And when the old woman had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, offering to take Grace somewhere safe, somewhere she could rest and figure out what to do next…
Well. What else was she supposed to do?
Still, unease crawled up Grace’s spine as she stepped through the doorway. The interior was dim, lit only by a few lamps that cast long shadows across cluttered surfaces. The air smelled like dust and old fabric and something else she couldn’t quite identify, something slightly off.
“Come in, come in,” The old lady said, ushering her inside with a gentle hand on her back. “You must be exhausted, poor thing.”
Grace nodded mutely, too tired to argue, too overwhelmed to do anything but comply.
“Sit down, dear. Make yourself comfortable.” The woman gestured toward a worn sofa in what appeared to be the living room, “I’ll get some food ready. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“I’m not really hungry,” Grace said quietly, but her stomach chose that exact moment to growl and betray her.
The woman smiled, the expression somehow not reaching her eyes. “Your body knows better than you do. Sit. Rest. I’ll be quick.”
She disappeared into what Grace assumed was the kitchen, leaving her alone in the dimly lit living room.
Grace sank onto the sofa, the springs creaking beneath her weight. She immediately reached for her phone, her hand going automatically to her pocket, but her fingers met only fabric.
Her phone.
Fuck.
It must have fallen during the struggle. When those men had grabbed her, when she’d been fighting and running and—
Grace’s hands started to shake, she pressed them together, squeezing hard, trying to stop the trembling.
She had no phone and no way to call anyone. No way to let anyone know where she was.
Did anyone even know she was missing yet?
Her parents were probably still at the hospital. Maddox… God, Maddox, had he heard her screaming his name? Was he even home at the time?
And Enzo…
Grace’s chest tightened at the thought of him. She didn’t know why. Didn’t understand the sudden ache that spread through her at the memory of his face, the way he’d looked at her in that hotel room.
“So that’s what I was.”
His words haunted her, so she pushed the thought away and wrapped her arms around herself.
The house was too quiet, she could hear the old woman moving around in the kitchen, the soft clink of dishes, the creak of cabinets opening and closing. But beyond that, nothing. No traffic sounds. No sound from neighbors. It was just silence.
Grace shifted on the sofa, trying to get comfortable, but something felt wrong. Her skin felt too tight, too warm. Her clothes seemed to be irritating her, the fabric scratching and rubbing in ways that should have been barely noticeable but instead felt almost unbearable.
She tugged at the collar of her shirt, trying to create some space, some air.
It didn’t help.
Her body felt strange. Restless. Like there was something crawling beneath her skin, something she couldn’t name or understand.
And there was this… ache, it was low in her belly. A heat that spread through her limbs, making her squirm.
Grace wondered what was wrong with her, her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Enzo. To the way his hands had felt on her skin, to the weight of his body against hers. And the way he’d looked at her, like she was something precious and dangerous all at once.
Her breath hitched.
Then, inexplicably, she thought of Maddox. Of the way he used to look at her before everything got complicated. Of his smile, his laugh, the familiarity of him.
She couldn’t understand why both men suddenly filled her thought process.
The heat intensified, spreading through her chest, down her thighs. She pressed her legs together trying to ignore it, but that only made it worse.
Grace stood abruptly, needing to move or do something to distract herself from whatever this was.
“I need to use the bathroom,” she called out, her voice sounding strange even to her own ears.
“Down the hall, first door on the right,” the old woman’s voice floated back, pleasant and unconcerned.
Grace didn’t wait for permission. She just moved, walking quickly down the narrow hallway until she found the bathroom.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she tried to catch her breath.
The bathroom was small and outdated, with faded floral wallpaper and a sink that looked like it had been installed decades ago. But it was clean, and it was private, and right now that was all Grace needed.
She moved to the toilet, her hands fumbling with her clothes. Everything felt too tight, too constricting. Even the simple act of pulling down her pants seemed to require more effort than it should.
When she finally sat down, relief flooded through her. Not just from the physical release, but from having a moment alone, a moment to think without the old woman’s eyes on her.
But the strange feeling didn’t go away.
If anything, it got worse.
Grace finished and stood, moving to the sink to wash her hands. She turned on the faucet, letting the cool water run over her fingers, and looked up at her reflection in the mirror.
She barely recognized herself.
Her face was flushed with eyes that were too bright, her lips slightly parted. Her hair was a mess, tangled and wild from the struggle, from being unconscious in that truck.
But it was her body that drew her attention.
Even through her shirt, she could see the outline of her nipples. They were hard, almost painfully so, pressing against the fabric in a way that made her acutely aware of every small movement, every breath.
Why were they so sensitive?
Grace lifted her hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing her palm against her chest.
The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and immediate. She gasped, her eyes widening at her reflection.
Her nipples were swollen. Sore. The fabric of her bra, which had never bothered her before, now felt like sandpaper against them.
She shouldn’t touch them. She knew that. Knew it was wrong, knew she should just ignore this and go back to the living room and wait for the old lady like a normal person.
But her hand moved anyway, seemingly of its own accord.
Grace slipped one hand under her shirt, the other finding the edge of her bra. She pushed it up, freeing her breasts, and immediately the cool air of the bathroom hit her heated skin.
It felt good. Too good.
This is wrong, she thought, even as her fingers found her nipple.
She touched it lightly, just the barest brush of her fingertips, and her breath caught in her throat. It was sore, yes, but beneath the soreness was something else. Something that made heat pool low in her belly and made her thighs press together involuntarily.
Grace’s other hand joined the first, both of them now cupping her breasts, her thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow, experimental circles.
She’d never done this before. Had never touched herself like this, never explored her own body with any kind of intent.
She felt clumsy and awkward. Her movements were uncertain, unpracticed. She didn’t know what she was doing or what she was supposed to be feeling.
But God, it felt good.
Her breathing quickened, her reflection in the mirror showing her flushed face, her half-lidded eyes. She looked like someone else, someone she didn’t recognize.
One hand drifted lower, sliding down her stomach, her fingers trembling slightly as they reached the waistband of her pants.
She shouldn’t. But she did.
Grace slipped her hand into her pants, past the elastic of her underwear, her fingers finding the heat between her legs.
She was wet, so wet that it shocked her. She’d never felt like this before, never experienced this kind of physical response to… to what? To stress? To fear?
‘To Enzo’ a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. To the memory of his hands on you, his mouth on you, the way he had made you feel.
Grace’s fingers found her clit and she gasped at the contact. It was almost too much, too intense. Her whole body jerked at the sensation.
She tried to be gentle, tried to mimic the way Enzo had touched her that night, but it wasn’t the same. Her fingers were too clumsy, too uncertain. She didn’t know what pressure to use nor did she know what rhythm to follow.
It felt good, but it also felt wrong. Not physically wrong, but morally wrong. Like she was doing something shameful, something dirty.
Good girls don’t do this, she could almost hear her mother’s voice saying. This isn’t appropriate, it isn’t proper.
Grace’s hand stilled, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
What was she doing?
She was in a stranger’s bathroom, touching herself while that stranger made her food in the next room. While she was supposed to be recovering from being kidnapped, from being chained up in a truck, from nearly being sold or killed or God knows what.
And here she was, unable to control herself, unable to think about anything except the ache between her legs and the memories of Enzo’s hands on her body.
Grace couldn’t understand what was wrong with her.
She pulled her hand away, shame flooding through her so intensely it almost hurt. She yanked her bra back down, straightened her shirt, and quickly washed her hands again, scrubbing them harder than necessary then splashed some water on her face.
She couldn’t look at her reflection. Couldn’t bear to see the flush on her cheeks, the guilt in her eyes.
She dried her hands on a towel that smelled faintly of mildew and took a deep breath, trying to compose herself.
She needed to go back to the living room. Needed to thank the woman for her hospitality and figure out what to do next. Maybe she could borrow a phone, call someone to get help.
Grace reached for the door handle, but before her fingers could close around it, she heard something that made her freeze.
A voice. Male. Low and muffled, coming from somewhere just outside the bathroom.
“Is she inside?” the voice asked, barely more than a whisper.
Grace’s blood turned to ice.
“Yes,” the old woman’s voice responded, equally quiet. “She’s been in there a few minutes now.”
“Good.” A pause. “So. Let’s talk price.”
Grace’s breath stopped in her chest.
Price?
“I told you what I wanted,” the old woman said, and her voice was different now. Harder. Not the gentle, caring tone she’d used with Grace at all. “All in cash. Tonight.”
“That’s steep for just one girl,” the man said, “Especially one who might be trouble.”
“This one’s special. I can smell it on her. She just recently turned eighteen and is in heat right now, take a look.” The old woman’s voice dropped lower, almost too quiet for Grace to hear. “They’ll pay triple what you’re paying me, at least. Probably more.”
“And if she fights?”
“She won’t, you would see her. She’s weak. Confused. She doesn’t even know what she is yet.” The old woman laughed, a sound that made Grace’s skin crawl. “Besides, I gave her something in that tea I made. She’ll be compliant soon enough.”
‘Tea?’
Grace’s mind raced back. The old woman had offered her tea. Grace had refused, said she wasn’t thirsty but the lady insisted…
The man was quiet for a moment. “Four thousand. And I take her now, before anyone comes looking.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Chen said, and Grace could hear the satisfaction in her voice. “But you'd better have the cash.”
“It’s in the car. Let me—”
Grace didn’t wait to hear more.