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My throat burns by the time I've exhausted myself howling and struggling to get free, to no avail. I'm vaguely aware of the guards moving me, loading me into a vehicle and strapping me in. The belts tighten around my chest and waist, locking me down so tightly I can barely move. Total darkness robs me of any chance of seeing where we're headed. All I can tell is we're going fast.

Fatigue eventually forces me to settle down — the drivers ignore me. Am I in a windowless, soundproof van with a separate driver cabin? Is this hood m.u.f.fling me so completely? I don't hear them either, for that matter — no police radio squawks or music or anything — just the roar of the engine and the hum of the air conditioner.

Deprived of freedom and sight, it doesn't take long for me to lose track of time. How far away is this prison? How long have we been driving? What direction are we going? I have no idea. Jefferson said the prison is northwest of Philadelphia, and that's where Congressman Prescott started the Prescott Penitentiary Complex — it stands to reason Walker would be in the vicinity, but is that where we're actually going? By now we could be in Upstate New York, somewhere in Ohio or West Virginia…

Not that that matters — we could be headed for Albuquerque — as long as I'm in his grasp, I'm in danger. But what am I supposed to do? Break out of a prison? I don't know how to do that!

I know that they'll take very good care of you.

Prescott's promise echoes in my ears, despite my efforts to drown them out. My heart pounds and sweat drenches the inside of my hood. What does that mean? What exactly are they going to do to me? Are the guards there going to beat me? Or maybe the inmates themselves? Am I going to be fighting for my life?

The judge I spoke to, Jefferson, made Walker seem like a different kind of place — more of a rehabilitation center than a jail. Does he not know the truth about it? He acted surprised when Prescott interrupted our meeting — was he afraid of the congressman? It didn't feel that way. He wanted to convince me to go to Walker — maybe he worried I wouldn't sign? But then Prescott took care of that, didn't he?

I bet no one will even challenge the forged signature. Maybe, if I'm lucky, my friend Lydia will look into what happened to me after that night, but I doubt she'll get far. They'll say I took a plea deal to serve a shorter sentence. Case closed.

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Jostling stirs me from a listless state. The vehicle b.u.mps upward twice — speed b.u.mps, I guess. Maybe we've arrived? It's a lot more likely than someone stopping the van to save me.

Dry as sandpaper, my tongue works against the gag, trying to relieve my throbbing jaw. After what feels like hours of being bound, my body aches nearly everywhere. Under other circ.u.mstances, I might not mind — a little pain always used to feel nice in a perverse sort of way. Though I've never admitted it to anyone, I've dreamed about some of my hot professors spanking me after doing poorly on a quiz. Being tied up like this, I should be terrified. Yet, they make me feel paradoxically at peace: unable to move or escape, I'm forced to accept the situation and stay calm, at least on the surface. Underneath, fear sc.r.a.pes ice across my bones, especially when the van finally comes to a stop.

Now quiet in my pacified state, I hear the doors opening, followed by the footsteps of men. They approach without a word, but then their hands crawl around my body as they release the restraints keeping me seated. After hauling me to my feet and out of the vehicle, there's a tugging at the back of my head, and then the hood comes free.

Burning light blinds me, but the fresh forest aroma clears away the stink of sweat and fear. When my eyes adjust, I see a blackish mirror, as the placid lake reflects dire storm clouds. Wind whips at my matted, brown hair and I think I feel a drop, though it could just be me — fresh tears roll down my cheeks as the guards push me towards the wire-topped walls. Gravel crunches under our feet, and overhead a caw echoes across the water. I've never heard such quiet before.

A high tower rises over the prison's metal-paneled gate. Two men stare down at us from above, and then the gate squeals like it's wounded as it opens.

Waiting on the other side, a man watches us approach. Dressed in khaki slacks and a black, b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, only his work boots seem right for a prison guard. He is built like one, though: broad in shoulders, tall and packed with muscle, he looks like he could lift a city bus. He glares at us — at me — as though somehow offended, and doesn't turn away when I meet his sharp, brown eyes. Short, dark hair stands rigid as his posture.

I already don't like him. No one who works at a place like this should be so handsome: a couple days of stubble coats a strong, chiseled jaw. His thick lips press together angrily in a way I could die for if he wasn't acting so unnerving.

"What is it, Reed?" asks one of the men forcing me forward.

"I'll take her from here," he replies. "Go inside and start calling the a.s.sembly."

"Yeah, sure." The two guards let go of me and head inside without a word.

The handsome man waits for them to go, then retrieves some kind of black belt from his pocket. With a metal ring attached to the front, it looks kinda like-

f.u.c.k me, it's a collar. As in, for an animal. Instead of having holes and a buckle, the band features two halves of a thick, metal locking clasp, with a small slit for a key on one end. At the center of the thick band there's a small gray box with a faint, blinking green light.

"Stand still," he says, lurching toward me. I try to flinch away, but he moves fast, and I'm still hobbled by all the cuffs and chains.

"I said, stand still!" he barks, attempting to wrap the collar around my neck. Snapping closed tightly, it makes some kind of electronic whine.

"What's that?" I murmur through the gag, coughing as my throat burns.

As if in answer, Reed pulls out a small, black remote and holds it up. The plastic square only has one b.u.t.ton; when he thumbs it, a jolt fires through my neck like a scalpel driven into my spine. Shrieking, I shake in my chains, trying to rid myself of the alien agony.

"That one was a warning. Do what you're told at all times, or you'll get more. Understand?"

My brain feels scrambled, and a rush of adrenaline fuels my terror. "Y-yes," I mumble.

He sets one hand on my shoulder and lifts my chin with the other, forcing me to look into his eyes. Mercifully, he removes my gag and tosses it aside, but nothing in his steely, brutal expression says he did it for my comfort.

"Quinn Harris, my name is Reed Nolan. I know what you did and why you're here. My job is to make you suffer through every minute of your residency. What you're going to learn very quickly is that I love my job."

He reaches behind his back and pulls from his waistband a gun-shaped device. I try to pull away, but he sticks it against my neck and squeezes the trigger.

I scream, though I feel only a slight twinge of pain — nothing compared to the shock collar. My heart pounds in my chest, though, fearful of what comes next.

"What was that?" I ask. "Did you just drug me?"

"No. I implanted a subcutaneous tracking device. If you get more than a mile away from here without having it removed, it'll rupture and you will have a seriously bad f.u.c.king day."

"Bulls.h.i.+t."

With a laugh, he spins me around by my shoulders so I face out the prison gate. "You want to find out? Take a walk. I'll come pick you up in a few hours — I know roughly where you'll be."

His lips curl into a nasty grin, the first from him I've seen, and my jaw hangs open. How can someone so despicable be so d.a.m.n attractive?

Maybe he's aware of the effect he's having on me, because his smile grows a little wider.

"Fine," I grumble, turning back to the prison. As tempted as I am to run, I doubt he's bluffing about the implant; and, with most of my body still restrained, I wouldn't get very far, especially since I don't really know where I am.

"Then let's go," he says, grabbing my forearm. "The a.s.sembly's waiting."

An a.s.sembly?

I'd ask, but I know I'll find out soon enough.

Electric doors buzz as Reed and I are let in the security checkpoint. I don't know what sort of intake processing is typical of this place, but we don't do any. Reed guides me through an x-ray, which we both set off; as we pa.s.s, I see a small, padlocked cage full of cell phones. We then head down a long, bland corridor bathed in fluorescent light.

Pa.s.sing through the secure door at the end of the hall feels like going through a portal: whatever part of the building we've reached, it's been designed to produce an entirely different atmosphere: instead of the claustrophobic, spartan utility of the previous area, this one looks like the inside of Jonah's pamphlet. Ma.s.sive windows let in daylight, while framed photos depict prison inmates working with machines, studying from textbooks and sitting in discussion circles.

Surprised, I stop to look around. This area must be for visitors, but do they really let outsiders into a place like this? That doesn't make sense. How could they-

Then I feel it: a hard impact against my backside. When I look to Reed, he glares back at me, closing his open palm into a fist.

"Move it."

Did he just f.u.c.king spank me?

Complying, I shuffle my feet as fast as I can. My a.s.s tingles where he slapped it — even through my clothes, it hurt enough to leave a lingering throb. I'm reminded of my restraints, and their feel around my body. There's something about the sensation I don't entirely dislike, though I get the impression a serious spanking from Reed would be extremely painful.

Pa.s.sing through a set of wide double doors, we enter a small auditorium. Two columns of red theater seats line a central walkway to a raised, wooden stage. Sitting quietly in the chairs are at least twenty women: all my age and pretty, they don't strike me as being a typical sampling of criminals. Their hair has all grown long, as though they don't have anyone cutting it here in this place. Though they wear gray prison uniforms and a shock collar matching the one I'm wearing, my eyes are drawn to their wrists, which are bound to their seats by shackles built into the armrests. As we pa.s.s by, some watch Reed and I make our way toward the stage, but most keep their heads down, afraid to look.

f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, what is this place?

My mind reels, horrified by the sight. Why are they all bound to their seats? Are they so dangerous? Do they think I'm the same? Do they think I'm a violent person, because of what happened to Lance? That's ridiculous.

It's because of Prescott, isn't it? That's why I'm here. It's personal for him. But who are these other women? What did they do?

Reed directs me to a set of stairs leading up to the stage, and then to its front and center. As we go, another man emerges from the wing: middle-aged but in decent shape, he smiles as he rakes his gaze up and down, taking me in for the first time. He wears a gray sports jacket, slacks and a white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, but no tie. Though thin from balding, his hair is unnaturally dark — dyed, I a.s.sume. He carries himself with authority, unhurried and at home — nothing unusual is happening here, as far as he's concerned.

"Quinn Harris, welcome to Walker," he says. "My name's Byron Ashworth, and I'm the warden. They say you met my friend Darren, Congressman Prescott, earlier today. Isn't that right?"

"Your friend?" I spit, bile rising in my throat.

His smile widens. "For more than thirty years. So when he asked me to make sure this place breaks you so badly you barely remember your own name, I told him it would be my honor. That's why I got this."

He directs my attention to a wooden stockade being wheeled onto the stage by Reed. Like the kind seen at historical theme parks, it features two blocks separated by a seam, with openings to bind one's wrists and neck.

"At Walker, disobedience is punished without mercy or exception. There is no talking out your feelings or expressing grievances — if you act out, you will be whipped, isolated, humiliated and more. For all intents and purposes, we own you. There are no guidelines or rules regarding your treatment — my word is law. It's harsh, and often unfair. I'd tell you to get used to it, but if you do, it means I'm not doing my job correctly."

"I hate you," I murmur, trying to hold back tears. "You're a monster."

Byron shrugs. "Call me whatever you want. I'm the boss here." He points to the stockade. "You ever been put in one of those before? Have you ever felt what it's like to be locked up?"

"No," I snort, but I'm blinking fast to keep my eyes from burning. "I'm not a f.u.c.king criminal."

Laughing, Byron gestures to the guards, who immediately set to work removing my cuffs and chains. "Whenever I have a new resident, I like to give her a real taste of what she can expect here. Isn't that right?" he calls out.

Soft mumbles drone from the audience. I don't want to face them, but I have no choice after Reed locks my head into the stock. They're watching with more interest now, though their vacant stares bring no comfort.

"Ladies," Byron continues. "This is Quinn Harris, and she is here to pay for the a.s.sault that robbed Congressman Darren Prescott of his son, Lance. Due to the seriousness of her crime, her disobedience — and she looks like she'll be disobedient, doesn't she — will result in an excessive rebuke. If you think you've had it bad before, wait until you see what happens to Quinn here. I'm telling you this because you will help make her feel unwelcome. You will not take pity on her, be kind to her or take her side, ever. The first one to even speak to her will be severely punished. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," the women respond in unison.

I start struggling against the stock the second Reed locks it into place: the clicking sound flips a switch in my mind, as I realize I'm fully incapacitated. With my body secured by the device, I can't even attempt to run. My hands twist and shake while my knees flex, but nothing budges — there's no escape.

To make matters worse, I feel hands along my waist, followed by the rush of cool air against my skin as Reed pulls down my pants. Thras.h.i.+ng in place as I futilely attempt to kick him away, my shriek fills the auditorium so loudly, I see the other women flinch.

"Don't fight," Reed warns as he tugs my panties down to my knees. "It won't help."

He may be right about that, but my instincts say otherwise, refusing to settle down. "Please let me go," I cry. "I don't belong here! I was only defending myself! Please, don't do this to me!"

"Beautiful," Byron says, circling me, arms folded in front of his chest. I can't help noticing the growth of an ominously large tent in his pants. "I love putting girls like you in the stock. Right now you're feeling helpless and angry — you want to fight, but don't know how. As your term here goes by, you'll eventually accept that you can't fight. The best you can hope for is that it will end well, but it won't. At some point you'll end up back in the stock, vulnerable and exposed, as someone like me does to you whatever he wants. It won't change, Quinn."

He steps behind me, and after a moment I feel a sharp sting across my a.s.s.

"You said you were only defending yourself," he says. "Look around. You'll see a lot of people who claimed the same thing. It doesn't matter. You're here now."

The whip cracks this time as it lashes my cheeks. I howl, writhing as the pain spreads into my body. Byron only waits a few seconds before swinging again, and this time it's even harder than the first two. Pushed beyond my breaking point, I sob openly as the prison warden punishes my a.s.s. The looks on the inmates' faces offer no succor, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I cry out with each stroke of the whip, overwhelmed by torment I never could have imagined.

When Byron finally stops, my skin feels scorched, throbbing a heat that refuses to subside. I shake uncontrollably, and tears soak my face.

He steps to the front of the stock to face me and takes my bound hands in his. Leaning in close, he whispers, "Quinn, by the time your sentence is over, you'll wish you'd just let Lance **** you."