Read Online Uncovering You 10: The Finale by Scarlett Edwards - Free Book Online Page A

desperate, and desperate men do desperate things.
    Oh my God . The precariousness of my situation reveals itself to me in its complete misery. Esteban has brought me here. He’s not completely lucid. In fact, he’s probably completely insane, possessed by an inconceivable zeal to see justice done.
    Justice in whose eyes?
    How is it that I can possibly get out of this alive? It’s not blackmail. It’s not a ransom. The very first thing that the leader of Esteban’s band told me was that they were after information. He made me repeat it to him today.
    Information…about Jeremy? No. About Stonehart Industries. Esteban does not simply want to trade me and get the rights to his company back. It cannot be as simple as that. What I suspect—and this terrifies me most—is that he wants me to give him information that he can use to do to Stonehart Industries what Jeremy did to Dextran.
    The problem is: I don’t have any.
    Despair wells up in me, and I succumb to it fully.
    There’s no fighting. No resistance. Nothing that I can do.
    The writing is on the wall. I can see the situation I’m in. I’m afraid— I’m terrified— that there truly will be no getting out.
    The main door opens and shuts. My three original captors come in. They move about me without a word, undoing the straps, lifting me up.
    I don’t try to fight, or escape. I’ve given in to reality.
    And reality is: There’s no getting out.
    “Seems like the boss had a good talk with her, eh?” the biggest of the three laughs. He pokes at my gut with a crude finger. I grunt, and then sag down.
    “Women are the same,” the nameless leader says. “They all think they’re strong. In the end, it’s just a façade.” He gestures in an obscene way. “Go on. Clean her up.”
    I’m shoved forward. I force my legs to move. The men don’t have to goad me to make me go.
    I’m led down a hall, into another room. This one’s small, but clean. There’s a bed with a foam mattress. A single pillow. A thin sheet to use as a blanket.
    Through another entrance, I see a running shower. There is no curtain or tub—just a spout hanging from the middle of the ceiling.
    I’m pushed toward it. I stumble and nearly fall, catching myself on the doorframe at the last possible moment.
    “Go,” the leader says. ‘Wash yourself. You are filthy. If you don’t do it…” He glances at his companions, “…these two will gladly help.”
    I stare at him, hatred pulsing in my eyes. But I comply. I walk into the bathroom and pick up the tiny bar of soap from the floor. I bring a hand out to test the water. It’s freezing cold.
    I look for the tap and don’t find one. The men laugh at my hesitation.
    “It’s not getting any warmer, sweetheart. I’ll give you five seconds to decide if you can do it yourself. Ready? Five, four…”
    Without thought, I plunge in.
    The sensation is horrible. All the breath is taken out of me. I gasp, keenly aware of those male eyes on my body. Keenly aware of how little time I have left before they decide to take matters into their own hands.
    I force icy limbs to move. Scrub, lather, rinse. Scrub, lather, rinse. I do it again and again, over and over, wishing and praying that this nightmare will come to a close while knowing deep down, that it never will.
    I drop the soap more often than I can count. Every time, my fumble evokes a chorus of laughter.
    I make myself numb to it. I make myself immune. If there’s one thing Jeremy taught me, in all the time I spent in the dark, it’s how to disassociate. How to remove my thoughts and feelings from the physical things that are being done to me.
    At least, I think sourly, I can be grateful for that.
    When I’m done—when I step out of the cold stream, praying that they consider me clean enough not to shove me back in—I sway and lean against one sterile, tiled wall.
    A towel is thrown to me. I fumble the catch. It falls into a puddle and quickly soaks up the water.
    I hurry to pick it up,