Page 109 of Wicked and Claimed

Until then, he was trapped here alone with traces of her presence and growing dread about what midnight would bring.

CHAPTER SIX

Wearing nothing but the flesh-colored silk slip she’d been provided—sans undergarments—Haisley paced the opulent waiting room, lace cupping her breasts and brushing the tops of her thighs. Her bare feet sank into plush carpet with each step. God, she was almost naked, and she felt so vulnerable.

Midnight was a handful of hours away. When her “buyer” would come. When her life would change.

Her stomach pitched and churned.

The setting sun painted the Caribbean waters gold, but she’d been focused on the waiting room, which was both luxurious and suffocating. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across cream walls. She’d spent hours searching for weaknesses—testing windows, examining fixtures, studying guard rotations. Nothing.

Silk drapes framed hurricane-proof windows that may as well have been iron bars. Every beautiful, privilege-soaked surface was another way to trap her.

Movement on the pier caught her eye. A yacht docking, sleek and white against the sapphire water. Three men disembarked in expensive suits that caught the dying sunlight. One towered over the others, his stride familiar… Nash? Her heart leaped, then plummeted. The distance was too great to be sure. Wishful thinking, she told herself. She was seeing what she desperately wanted to see, manufacturing hope where none existed.

A silent guard delivered dinner on fine china—some elaborate French dish with a rich aroma that turned her stomach. The goblet caught the light like crystal, but it was harmless plastic filled with water. No wine. No alcohol of any kind to dull her terror about what tonight would bring.

Probably for the best. She needed her wits about her, needed to stay sharp and aware of any opportunity.

The stylist arrived as darkness fell, and the hands of the clock crept closer to midnight. Her hands were gentle as she arranged Haisley’s hair into elaborate curls, weaving in tiny crystal pins that caught the light. In the mirror, Haisley studied the woman’s face—young, pretty, with kind eyes that didn’t match her detached demeanor.

“Please,” Haisley whispered. “I know you can see this is wrong. These women—we’re people. We have lives, families. People who love us. I was kidnapped. Stolen. This isn’t right.”

The woman’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. In the mirror, their eyes met. For one breathless moment, Haisley thought she might have reached her.

The stylist’s gaze darted to the cameras mounted in each corner, then back. Sympathy flickered across her face before she looked away, hands trembling as she pinned another curl. When she finished, she packed her supplies with mechanical precision and fled, leaving Haisley fighting tears that would ruin her carefully applied makeup.

Crying wouldn’t help. Crying only proved these monsters who saw her as nothing but breeding stock were winning.

The guard returned with the “costume” to wear over her short silk slip—a crimson velvet cloak that whispered against her skin and a golden mask that felt cold and heavy in her hands. The mask was a work of art, covering her entire face except for almond-shaped eye holes and narrow slits for breathing. The mouth was solid gold, sealing away her voice. Like everything else here, it was beautiful and horrible at once.

They led her through marble corridors that echoed with her footsteps, down into the bowels of the compound where the Midnight Sanctuary waited. Even before she entered, she heard male voices, glasses clinking, and laughter mingled with anticipation—a celebration of the horror to come. The air grew thick with expensive cologne, testosterone, and lust.

Other women huddled backstage, identical in their red cloaks and gold masks. Through the heavy curtain, Haisley glimpsed the massive room beyond. Ornate chandeliers cast sinister shadows across a sea of tuxedos and masks. A huge bed dominated the stage, its black silk sheets a promise of the violation to come.

One by one, the other women disappeared beyond the curtain. Each “claiming” followed the same pattern: Gray’s silky introduction, approving murmurs from the crowd, then sounds that made Haisley’s skin crawl. Silk tearing. Commands in various languages. Flesh on flesh. Pleas and screams, eventually followed by broken sobs. Then…applause for each “performance,” as if they were at some perverse theater.

A familiar voice rang out. “And now, gentlemen, our virgin offering.”

Haisley’s heart stopped. Kaylee. The petite brunette trembled so hard she could barely walk as she was thrust between the curtains, onto the stage, and out of Haisley’s sight. Applause and whistles erupted.

“She’s pure. Untouched. Ready to be molded to her master’s will. Mr. Fischer, come do the honors.”

Through the curtain, she heard a man’s commanding voice—oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place it. “Very nice. I’ll enjoy breaking you in, pet.”

Kaylee’s terrified whimper made Haisley’s stomach twist. Then she heard the squeak of the mattress, followed by the all-too-common sound of silk tearing. Eerie quiet descended. From her position backstage, she shifted the velvet drape, hoping to catch a glimpse of the poor, innocent girl being somehow taken gently or spared altogether.

But no.

Her “owner” had her on her back, dress ripped. He’d mounted her with his long teal cape spread out around them, covering the details. But Haisley didn’t need to see everything. Kaylee shrieked, then screamed in pain while he pinned her wrists to the mattress above her head, buried his head in her neck, and thrust enthusiastically, as if he were banging her at the same pace he would a drum.

Haisley hurt for the girl, having the last shred of her innocence stripped from her in such a horrifying way. What would become of her now that the monster on top of her had taken the one thing she had to give a man she loved?

“Stop peeking. Get back.” A guard yanked her by the hood of her cloak and shoved her to the center of the backstage area, leaving Haisley to nibble on a nail and wonder what would happen to any of them.

The dancer went last before her, her shrieks cracking until they became cries that echoed in Haisley’s bones. The sounds weren’t pain, but something worse. Pleasure forced from her unwilling body. A hoarse cry followed by sobs.

Then she was the last one backstage, trembling alone in her crimson cloak.

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