Page 3 of Dark Possession
Normal men—ordinary, everyday-Joe-kind-of-men—aren’t like that. They’re more relaxed.
The girl next to me shivers uncontrollably and sags back against the railing. The Bratva who had been behind me is a few girls down, prodding his gun between the legs of another girl in a similar state.
I elbow my neighbor. “Stand up,” I whisper. “And dry your tears.”
With a quick glance down the line, the girl draws herself up until the tremble of her chin is the only sign of her distress.
“In a moment,” one of the men says, “this door will open, and we will send each of you out onto the stage.”
Somebody moans, and a slap resonates through the space.
“There will be no pussy tears,” the man continues. “You will smile! Be happy! Show your new masters how happy you are to be their new toy.”
I roll my eyes. Is he for real? Does he truly expect these young women, whom he has presumably trafficked and terrorized, to pretend to be thrilled?
“Is there a problem, Miss?”
The speaker has come to stand before me while I’m inwardly scoffing. I lift my gaze, allowing myself to assess him as he is doing me, and raise my chin a fraction.
He stands around five-feet-nine inches, so I don’t have to look too far to meet his eyes, a fact I’m sure maddens him. He has the customary short haircut and nice suit—silk on a pig.
I smile. I refuse to cower before these men. They can posture and grab futilely for power where they can—but they’re taking nothing that I’m not giving.
“No problem,” I reply. “I can’t wait to get out there.”
“Is that so?”
I broaden my smile, and if it trembles at the edges, he doesn’t seem to notice. “Onward and upward, right?”
He walks a few feet away and points to one of the girls. “You. At the door.” Hand pressed to her throat, she obeys.
He flicks two fingers at another. “And you.” The girl stifles a sob and moves. “You.”
He moves to stand in front of me once again. “Yours is the sister who owes Koka money, isn’t she?”
My mouth goes dry. “Not anymore.”
At his side, his fingers work some complicated dance against his trousers. He reaches up and runs a finger across my bottom lip. “Not unless someone buys you. Settles the debt. If no one buys you… If no one likes this smart mouth or this old pussy—“ Sliding his hand down, he cups my vagina and squeezes painfully. “Then you still owe. Little sister still owes.”
I don’t have a response; terror and rage course through every vein in my body in equal measure. He pats my cheek, the gesture more like a slap. “Line up.”
Numb, I step behind the other girls. The door creaks open, and directional stage lights placed on the floor pour in, blinding me momentarily.
“Move.”
We move, the first girl walking forward to stand on a mark on the stage while the rest of us wait just out of sight behind her. The announcer makes a few remarks, and the bidding begins almost immediately.
Within minutes, she’s purchased. She walks off stage in the direction opposite from where we entered, and the next girl takes her place. I step closer, deliberately keeping my expression calm and vaguely disinterested. The last thing I want to show is fear.
As my eyes adjust, I’m able to make out the hazy outline of our surroundings. We stand on a platform in a dim, black-shrouded room. The girl on stage is illuminated by a dedicated spotlight. The audience before us is cloaked in shadows, no single face discernible. The sound of low voices, the clink of ice in glasses, and murmured conversation filters back.
The girl next to me hiccups, and a furtive glance reveals her crying.
For a moment—a single, desperate moment—I want to join her. The lights flare and swim into starburst patterns, and the dull hum of noise that surrounds us suddenly seems deafening.
This was a terrible idea. Anyone could purchase me. A sadist. Someone who wants a body to break, to maim, to torture.
My hands curl into fists. That’s exactly why I’m here, though. Better me than Marina.
