Page 110 of Wicked and Claimed

“Our final offering of the night.” Mr. Gray’s voice rang out, smooth as poison honey. “Lot twenty-three. Pure fire and defiance waiting to be tamed. Come claim your prize, Mr. King.”

From behind, someone shoved her between the heavy velvet drapes. Mr. Gray grabbed her wrist, tore away her mask, and pushed her under a lone spotlight. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the glare, horror mounting as she found hundreds of male gazes fixed on her. Leers and catcalls followed, along with hungry stares that stripped away what little her silk slip concealed.

She wanted to shrink away. To close her eyes and transport herself back home to any other lazy Sunday full of crosswords followed by a spicy romance novel with her sleeping cat curled in the crook of her knees.

Instead, the smell of sweat and sex blended with bright lights to remind her that there was no escape.

And she was now the main event.

Heavy footsteps mounted the stage. With a gasp and a thundering heart, she turned. A man in a teal cloak approached, his silver mask catching the stage lights. He moved with lethal grace, impossibly tall, his presence filling the space between them as his gaze raked over her. Even through the mask, she felt his heat, his focus. His intent to have her.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Gray asked, his voice thick with anticipation. “Let the breeding begin.”

The audience erupted in applause as guards stripped away her cloak, leaving her in nothing but a scrap of silk that revealed more than it concealed. Her “buyer” reached for his own disguise with steady hands.

His silver mask fell away. Haisley’s lungs seized, her vision tunneling until all she could see was his face. The room dissolved around her as reality splintered and reformed.

Nash.

Her pulse roared in her ears as hope and terror warred in her chest. She couldn’t read his expression—not with so many predatory gazes fixed on them and every muscle in her body trembling.

His dark eyes promised salvation, but as she took in the armed guards, the surveillance cameras, the sheer impenetrability of this fortress surrounded by an ocean… Dear god, what had he done? He’d walked straight into their trap, and now they were both caught in this gilded hell with no way out.

* * *

Time froze. Haisley stared up at Nash, her mind racing. Thoughts reeling. Adrenaline and relief coursed through her veins. Her nerves were wired. Electric fear poised her on a knife’s edge.

How was he here? What did he have planned? And why had he chosen the cover name Jasper?

Before she could think through those questions—before she could even whisper his name—he lunged for her.

With his face lit by a conqueror’s smile, he seized her waist with powerful hands. The world tilted when he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, then tossed her onto the black silk sheets. Apprehension zipped through her as the impact knocked the breath from her lungs. The icy silk against her nearly naked body made her shiver.

His massive frame covered hers. His familiar musk permeated her senses. His body heat seeped through the thin silk of her gown, warming her even as goose bumps pebbled her skin. She took comfort in his closeness. Then he nipped her lobe as his teal cape fluttered before settling over them, creating the illusion of privacy while catcalls and whistles reminded her they were anything but alone.

She shivered. Nash had risked his life and his freedom to save her. She felt shielded but not safe, especially not with Gray circling the stage like a vulture and all these predatory gazes fixed on the spectacle of her violation.

Gray’s satisfied chuckle echoed in the sanctuary. “Well, well. Aren’t we eager?”

“Play along,” Nash breathed against her ear. “They’re watching. Testing us.”

He was right. The audience’s attention pressed against her like something physical—more than a hundred pairs of eyes devouring their every move. Hungry. Expectant. And every one of them would pounce if this performance didn’t look real.

That realization terrified her.

“Cameras everywhere,” she breathed back.

He nodded as he murmured against her throat. “This might get rough. You have to fight me. Make it good.”

She did, pushing against him with a cry. But she was no match for his superior size and strength.

Nash leered for the crowd as he subdued her flailing arms, pinning them above her head with one hand. With the other, he reached for the metal restraints and easily clicked the cold metal around her wrists, as if she hadn’t fought him at all.

Haisley dragged in a deep breath. She could endure whatever came next. She had to. One wrong move—one slip that revealed their connection—and they were both dead.

Nash dragged his lips up her throat. “Good. Keep it up. I’ve got you.”

She nodded, then gasped as his mouth claimed hers. His kiss was possessive, demanding—a show of conquering dominance for their audience. Underneath, she felt his tenderness. His promise. But she fought back, pushing and elbowing him while jerking her mouth free from his seeking lips.

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