Page 112 of Wicked and Claimed

With his free hand, he reached between them and wriggled his pants to his hips.

Haisley reacted as if she was his victim, panicking and flailing, trying to kick and shove him off of her—all to no avail. She kept the screams rolling and forced herself into the worst possible headspace to keep the tears flowing. Above her, Nash pretended to ignore her struggles and cries as he settled the crest of his cock against her.

She tensed.

He nipped at her neck, just below her ear. “This is a show. This isn’t us. You know that. Right?”

It wasn’t easy to keep pretending something this awful, but she didn’t have a choice. He didn’t, either.

She managed to nod.

“Good,” he breathed. “I’ll make this as quick as I can. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” That realization only made her sob harder.

Then she closed her eyes and tried to block out everything.

CHAPTER SEVEN

With a grunt and a jerk of his hips, the terrible fucking charade was finally over.

The audience leapt to its feet and gave them a hearty standing ovation. Nash did his best not to puke as he withdrew from Haisley, then wiped himself on the sheet and zipped up.

God, this had been one of the most wretched nights of his life.

A glance down at Haisley twisted his heart until he physically hurt. Though everything they’d done tonight had been an act, she looked wrecked. Shellshocked. Shattered.

The sight shook him to the core. He fucking wanted to wrap his arms around her and promise it would never happen again.

He couldn’t do either.

Instead, he lunged for the restraints shackling Haisley’s wrists. Her skin was clammy beneath his touch, her pulse racing at her throat. Fuck, she was terrified and bravely trying to play her part. He had to get her the hell out of here.

His fingers trembled as he released her cuffs and yanked her slip down to cover as much of her as possible. Finally, he jerked upright, hauled her to her feet, and wrapped his cape around her nearly naked body, sheltering her from the audience’s predatory gazes.

“What an evening of delights!” Mr. Gray’s voice rang out across the Midnight Sanctuary. “Our finale ended with quite the ‘bang,’ wouldn't you say?” Raucous laughter rolled through the crowd. “For those already inquiring about our next event, merchandise is being procured as we speak. Those who didn’t claim a prize this time, join us next month for another spectacular auction. You might get lucky.” He winked.

As the crowd of perverts and degenerates clapped, Nash lifted her into his arms. She curled against his chest, seeking his protection. As if she’d been well and truly conquered, she lowered her stare.

Holding her close, he carried her down the steps and toward the rabid onlookers wearing designer suits that reeked of wealth and privilege. As the crowd parted for them, diamonds glinted on raised champagne glasses. Their wild gazes held a mixture of envy and raw lust that made Nash clutch Haisley even tighter. He vowed to destroy every one of these motherfuckers.

“You broke her in good,” someone called out. “Good job, man!”

“Fucking her is like fucking a tiger, isn’t it? All hissing and claws…until you make her kitty purr.”

It was a particularly vile comment, but Nash never wavered, playing the arrogant, entitled buyer proudly displaying his conquest. Inside, his heart bled for Haisley with every step. The way she played her role perfectly—defeated, subservient, broken—while he felt her fingers grip his shirt. Two performances in perfect sync, both of them dying inside.

“Dude! You’re the man. Looks like she was worth every one of those ten million bucks.”

Nash clenched his jaw, forcing himself to ignore their bullshit and back slapping. Instead, he fixed his face into a possessive smirk that said he couldn’t wait to get his prize alone.

As he strode from the Midnight Sanctuary, exhaustion tugged at him. He was spent on every level, and each step felt heavier than the last. But he couldn’t show weakness. Not here. Not now. Haisley shuddered in his arms, her breath coming in shallow pants against his neck, her body trembling with fatigue and stress.

The walk to their suite felt endless. A thousand apologies sat on the tip of his tongue. He forced himself to swallow them, focusing on his every step echoing through the marble corridors, not the homicidal rage boiling his blood.

Finally—mercifully—he reached the door to their suite. He wrenched it open, then kicked it shut behind them before stalking into the bathroom and setting Haisley on her unsteady feet.

She glanced up at him, trembling and trying bravely to hold herself together. His fury must have bled into his expression because she shrank back in fear. It nearly ripped him apart.

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