“You always lose,” she said between gritted teeth. “I will not go with them.”

I will take my son and head back to England the moment you turn your back, you swine.

“Elena.”

“I mean it, Robert. They’ll have to drag me out of here.” Her voice caught on those words, and she had to force out the next, “I refuse to go anywhere.”

Eyes flooding with angry tears, she really looked at the man who was supposed to be her husband. How could he do this and without so much as a shrug? Was she so worthless?

“Please, Elena.” Again his hand swept through his hair, never a good sign when his agitation got the better of him. “I’ll talk to Ali Admen’s man of affairs tomorrow. We’ll work out another arrangement. We cannot afford—”

“No! You disgust me, Robert. What made you think you made a morally sound judgment wagering your own wife for a hand of cards? How dare you! I will not leave. This is my home. In case you’ve forgotten, our son needs us. He needs me. ” She pressed her clenched fist to her heart, voice breaking on a sob. “You would take away his mother?”

Elena trained her eyes on the larger and quieter of the eunuchs. His expression held nothing useful for her. She stared into those mud-brown eyes and wondered how to mend this before falling into the snare of those deep wells.

The sound of the baby crying had her on her feet and at the door in a trice.

This was her chance. She’d leave Constantinople and never look back.

“Elena—”

She glanced sidelong at Robert, hand already around the door latch, her heart tripping faster than ever as she looked at her husband for the last time. She had to leave here as quickly as her feet could carry her.

“If you think for one moment I’ll let Jonathan cry through your good-for-nothing negotiations,  you’re mistaken. You can take my place in their slave quarters until you fix this! I’ll be with the baby, should you come to your senses and wish to make amends.”

One of the eunuchs grasped the base of her neck, and spun her painfully around.

As he pushed her to the closed door, all the air whooshed from her lungs. Her shoulder ached from its impact against the molding. She refused to cry out her pain and bit her lip till she thought it would bleed.

Realization dawned as she tried to dislodge his hand unsuccessfully; he could snap her just like this. Hopefully, she was worth more alive than dead. His hand was unrelenting, and with his weight behind it, it proved almost impossible to drag any air into her lungs.

She tried to squirm out of his grasp. She brought her hands up to his chest to push him away but his grip tightened, his body pressing hard and heavily into her, rendering her powerless to move. Deep down, she knew there was never a hope for escape. Why she attempted it, she didn’t know. Foolish bravery, perhaps.

No. She attempted it for her son. Her son. God, what would happen to her son?

A thin knife rasped against her flesh and jabbed into the vein that beat a furious tempo above the eunuch’s thumb. It was the only thing to stop her from pushing at him again. Nothing more than the threat of the sharp tip held her down, the still weight of an ox standing behind that deadly pinprick. Her hands dropped to her side in defeat.

If she were dead, she wouldn’t be able to help her son.

The eunuch loosened his grip. From her peripheral vision she saw his other hand swoop down toward her temple. She ducked the blow too late.

“She’ll fetch a pretty price. She has nice form. Skin’s tight and free of blemish.”

The tall, thin Englishman was the one who spoke, his spectacles resting on the end of his nose as he pinched various parts of her flesh in his inspection. His touch was light but no less invasive than some of the crueler handlings she’d had over the days. It angered her that he talked as though she were a fine piece of horseflesh and not a human being.

This was the same man who’d looked her over three days ago. The first Englishman she’d seen in this pit worse than any hell imaginable. She’d begged his help then, tried pleading that her being here was a grave misunderstanding. Told him that the life of her baby rested on his goodwill.

He hadn’t listened. So Elena said nothing, just bit her lip to still her shaking. She wanted to cry when he prodded at her naked breasts and touched her bare stomach through the tear in her chemise. No sense in crying out. That would earn her another beating. She’d given up begging for help days ago—or was it a week? Time was irrelevant; days leached into night then back into day. No one cared about her here. She was just another slave in their dark, cold gazes.

When she had awoken in this dilapidated warehouse the first thing she noticed was the dingy faded ashen walls. When her head had stopped throbbing she was nauseatingly assaulted with the smell of unwashed human bodies. The stench of excrement and urine so thick in the air it was as though it had sunk into the very foundation of the building. When she breathed through her mouth she tasted that awful, stale reek of dirty human bodies. Better to smell that rotten stench.

Heavy muslin over the large windows stopped the light from reaching its warm rays out to her and blocked fresh air from cleaning out her aching lungs. The slave handlers bound her with thick rope, looping it through a rusted metal collar that tethered her to the wall. She’d been treated like an animal since her arrival. Poked, jabbed, humiliated with their scrutiny and quibbling of a price over her.

She should be happy they hadn’t completely forgotten her like some of the other slaves huddled in their own reek and filth. They gave her a grayish sludge they called food once a day. Sometimes there was rice or pilaf, which she’d refused at first. But after a couple days of dire hunger, she’d learned to close her eyes and eat around the cockroaches infesting the food. She pretended the wriggling of their bodies was merely a product of her overactive imagination.

Every man who looked her over had torn more of the meager clothes she wore, all in an effort to see her in the flesh. She tried to cover the exposed parts, but it did her no good. Most of her nightclothes were shredded or gone. All that remained was her undershirt and drawers, soiled from the grime crusted on every surface. They’d even taken her slippers and stockings. Her left heel had blistered something fierce on the first day, when she’d tripped over the chain nailed into the floor.

At first, she’d begged and cried that they spare her some privacy. All to no avail.

Having had enough of her antics, the guard had hit her so hard in the stomach she’d fallen over gasping for air. The pain still bothered her, a low persistent ache, but it lessened as the purplish bruises faded to an unsightly green. She had learned her lesson that night.

Now she only cried out her misery when the slaves bedded down on the hard earth at night. She didn’t beg to be released after that, realizing they might do worse next time. If they did treat her any worse, she might never escape. Not that she knew how she would escape.

“Yes, but she’s used goods. They don’t like their women in this state in the high court.”

The other man said this and then grasped one of her engorged breasts, squeezing the areola and nipple until milk flowed down her torso. She let out a cry of distress and pain with the release of built-up fluid. Mostly it was a cry against the abject humiliation of being handled in such a fashion. That milk was for her child. Her child that she might never see again.

God, she did not belong here. She could not survive here much longer.

Her whimpers had the slave guard yanking the rope around her neck, forcing her to silence as she was pulled back a step. She wedged her fingers beneath the collar so she could breathe. Her neck probably sported the same bruising displayed on her abdomen. It ached and itched so much from the incessant tugging and sweating through the hot days.

She stood as tall and straight as she could and stared defiantly at the two men.

Could they see the hatred in her eyes? The English one looked at her thoughtfully.

Assessingly. She didn’t like the flicker in his gaze; it looked too much like desire. It repulsed her to be looked upon so lecherously. What did they think to do with her?

Then their words registered. High court. Did they mean to purchase her for the Sultan? She wouldn’t cooperate with any of them; she was English, not some slave they could do whatever they pleased with. Though if one were to look upon her now for the first time, they’d see nothing but a dirty, half-naked woman taking on the stink of a chamber pot. Her skin was crusted with dirt. She couldn’t even scrape the soil out from under her nails, as much as she tried. Even the beautiful curls of her hair hung limp, greasy and tangled around her like a banshee’s wild mane.

She’d been forced into something less honorable than her worth. Made worse because any attempt to stand up for herself would earn her another beating. She didn’t think they cared whether she lived or died. It made her want to fight, to scream, to hurt these men who treated a human so low. These men kept her away from her child. She despised them.

The Englishman called over the slave trader, whom she now knew was Ali Admen, the devil her husband had wagered all but his soul to. He sat at a great wooden table conducting a transaction with a Turk. When he rose, he strode toward them on light, silent steps. A trained warrior would walk in this manner, as if on the very air. Silly thought that, but her mind had taken some unusual turns these few days. Bound to happen, being deprived food, water, and any privacy to spare a scrap of her modesty, or her sanity for that matter.