He thrusts the shackles out to me, shaking them gently. I reach out and take them. They are cold to the touch but surprisingly lightweight.
“Go on,” he prompts me, growing impatient. “Hurry. We are already behind schedule.”
Schedule? What schedule? I wonder.
“I don’t have anything on beneath this dress,” I plead. Making eye contact, I try to seem as soft and pliable as possible.
He squints, rubbing his jaw. He comes closer to me, then reaches out and grabs me by the arm. He gives me a violent shake, gripping my arm so hard that there are sure to be red marks when he lets go.
“Get. Fucking. Naked!” he hisses.
Shaking, my eyes misting over, I put the chains down and carefully strip my dress off. I fold it, but when I offer it to him, he merely plucks it from my fingers and drops it to the ground.
Standing naked in front of Beck, I cower.
“You’re not my type,” he sighs, looking pointedly at my hands that have come up to cover my breasts.
It’s probably true, I realize. He isn’t ogling me in the least. Still, I am beyond ashamed.
“Chains,” he says, nodding to the shackles at my feet. He isn’t amused by the situation; if anything, he is bored by my shyness and shame.
I bend down gingerly and pick them up, still trying to show Beck as little of my body as possible. He looks at his watch and sighs as I shackle each limb. The fine golden shackles look like jewelry. The slim chains meet below my wrists, looking for all the world as if I had put them on myself, with decoration in mind.
Beck rustles around in the duffel bag again and comes up with a mass of the same chains. He approaches me with it.
“Hold still,” he says brusquely. He comes around my back, his touch cold and impersonal.
I flush and bow my head, my tears dripping onto my bare chest. He has humiliated me so thoroughly that I don’t know what to do or say. Mortified, I say nothing.
Beck spends the next couple of minutes putting one set around my belly and legs that looks like a set of garters. The other set goes around my neck and my breasts, hanging so that the chains glimmer gently where they catch the light.
He steps back and considers me, then spends another minute bringing my hair over my shoulders, fixing it to his satisfaction.
“Look up,” he tuts. “Look at me.”
But I just shake my head. I stand with my face tucked down, shivering. Not just from the cold room, but also from how exposed I feel right now.
Beck steps back, checking the time on his phone. “It’s almost time.”
I wipe away some of my tears, sniffling. “Time for what?”
He flashes me a brief smile. “For your debut, of course. After all, there is only one first time on the market. I think you will be quite the commodity.”
He cocks his head, admiring me. My face flames brightly with renewed humiliation. There’s a knock at the door, which makes me jump almost out of my skin.
Beck gestures for me to head to the door.
“No!” I say, shrinking back. He grabs me by the arm. “Please! Please, I’ll do anything—”
His laugh cuts me off. “Like you could give me anything I can’t get somewhere else. Come on.”
Pulling me along, he tows me out of the room and into the hallway. I blink as I see a whole row of girls struggling with their handlers before me. Turning my head, I see three girls and their handlers behind me too.
My eyes lock with the frightened brown eyes of a vaguely Latina girl behind me. She has beautiful brown hair that falls to her waist and two mascara streaks down either side of her face.
She stumbles when we lock eyes. Her dead-eyed attendant lifts her by the arm and muscles her along, uninterested in what is happening. He doesn’t even look at me, just keeps marching forward.
“Face forward,” Beck hisses, his fingers digging into the flesh of my arm.
I grunt and look back toward the train of girls, blonds and brunettes. As we stack up at a doorway, going in slowly, I count sixteen girls ahead of me.
When Beck and I come to the doorway, awaiting our turn, I am horrified to see the room we’re queuing for. It’s the high ceiling and cream tones cannot be disguised. It was once a ballroom, though it is shabby and dirty now. There are twenty individual platforms and heavy-duty chains hanging down from the ceiling. The girls that went before me are all cuffed with their hands over their heads, most blindfolded and openly weeping.
The whole room just stinks of evil, of fear and sweat and tears. Beck starts moving, his grip on my arm turning brutal when I try to resist going with him.
“No!” I cry, but Beck is not interested in my protests. He grips my arm and fists his other hand in my hair, forcing me over to one of the remaining empty platforms.
“Get up there,” Beck says, looking meaningfully at the platform.
Shaking, I take a step up. Already I feel like I am on display, though no one in this room is looking at me. The room itself is cold, the temperature raising goosebumps and pebbling my nipples.
Fresh tears roll down my face as Beck strings me up, cuffing my hands to the chain above my head. Moving stiffly after the car wreck and the beating from Father Derrik, I stand hobbled on the platform.
I let my head drop. Tears roll down my cheeks unchecked. My body is bruised and beaten. Now I am here on display, my soul almost crushed with shame and humiliation.
Most of my life, I have been fed a steady diet of stories Old Testament fire-and-brimstone God. The God in the stories I was told would only give this kind of punishment to those sinners who had done terrible wrongs.
The question ringing through my head is this: what exactly did I do to deserve this kind of torment?
I look up, wishing that Father Derrik had prepared me for this kind of thing. All those hours in Sister Marguerite’s office, and nothing like this had even been mentioned.
As if thinking his name conjured him, Father Derrik pokes his head inside the ballroom. As soon as he sees me, a sadistic grin spreads across his face.
He hurries over to my platform, dressed all in black as is usual. He isn’t wearing the clerical collar though, maybe because he is trying to keep a low profile or something.
Just seeing him makes everything so much worse. His glee is apparent as he approaches me, clucking his tongue.
“My, my, Rue.” His eyes travel up and down my frame. I have never been quite so humiliated as I am at that moment, squeezing my eyes closed as tears roll down my cheeks. “Look at you, all strung up like a hog ready to be slaughtered.”
He brushes his fingertips against my hip, which makes me die inside. I can’t breathe. I am going to be sick.
“Hey! Get back, unless you are a bidder.”
I open my eyes to see Beck shooing Father Derrik back, even though the Father is several inches taller than Beck. I loathe Beck, but for just this one second, I gloat at his treatment of Father Derrik.
Father Derrik’s eyes harden. He smiles. “She’s my property.”
“Don’t give a fuck. Are you here to bid?” Beck doesn’t even let the Father reply. “I didn’t think so. Get out of here.”
He glares at Father Derrik, who just narrows his eyes at both of us. “I’ll be back when the auction begins in earnest.”
“Sure,” Beck replies, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Can't have you making her upset before she’s to be sold. So, run along now.”
Father Derrik leaves in a huff. Beck looks up at me, shrugging. “Don’t get too excited. I won’t help you once the buyers arrive.”
He looks at me speculatively for a second, then mutters and shakes his head. He pulls a length of black gauzy material from his back pocket, then steps close to me again.
It’s only when he slips it around my head that I understand. He means to blind me. I struggle with him, fighting back, but it is a feeble battle.
He secures the blindfold over my eyes, tying it firmly behind my head. The whole world is blank and b
lack. Shuddering, I realize that listening is the only thing I have left. I am naked, my hands chained overhead, and utterly without defenses.
I bow my head, sobbing freely at how utterly cowed I am.
5
Dryas
“What are you going to do about Arsen?”
Blinking, I turn to Damen. “What?”
“You know that he is still extremely angry with you. You did stab him and leave him for dead, after all.”
My frown deepens. “I hardly think this is the time, Damen.”
His brows rise. “I am sorry that you feel that way. Would you like me to just pretend that his anger will not be an issue for you? Because it will. He will come for you.”
Putting my hand over my eyes, I sigh. “I know that. But today is not about Arsen. I will deal with him later, assuming that I am not killed in the meantime.”
Damen just shrugs and looks out his window, unperturbed by what we are facing.
I glance at the abandoned hotel as Damen and I are driven up to it. From St-Malo, we drove out thirty minutes to a hotel that stands alone, isolated and perfect for a slaver’s market.
Once perhaps grand, the huge four-story slate structure is crumbling now. It still has a few of the elements that made it great, like the massive front windows and a huge gravel drive. Many of the window panes are missing though, and the gravel drive has begun to slowly disperse.
This is the auction that Rue is at though, and Father Derrik too. They are both inside this building right now, both within my reach. Knowing that makes my blood hot.
I straighten my tie, looking over at Damen. We’ve decided to disguise ourselves with these terrible false mustaches and pretty convincing bald caps. With no hair and a mustache, Damen looks at least twenty years older. Plus, we are each wearing three-piece suits, to fit in with the crowd.
I frown at a world where men in expensive suits and older gentleman are the slaver’s best clients, but I am still going with it. After all, I do not have to hide who I am for too long. I just need to get myself in the door, so to speak.
Our driver pulls up to the entrance. Already I see several men in designer suits milling around, smoking and talking casually. I look at the driver.
“You have your phone on?”
“Oui.” He pats his breast pocket. “Right here, monsieur.”
Damen leans in. “We will call you as soon as things get messy. Plan on meeting us just down the road. Remember, you are the getaway driver.”
The driver nods. I open the back door into the bright sunlight, sliding out. Slipping my heavy black sunglasses out of my pocket, I put them on. Damen comes around the back of the car, looking at me.
“Ready to go fuck some shit up?” he asks in Greek, grinning.
I nod, but I am not so celebratory as my brother. My thoughts are anxious, filled with the image of Rue.
Is she okay?
Then I feel stupid for wondering that. Of course, she is not okay. She is at a fucking sex slave auction, on display as the merchandise. My fists clench as I follow Damen into the building, where we hit our first hurdle.
We line up behind a couple of men wearing sports coats who are fishing their identification out of their wallets. There is a big guy with an iPad there, checking people in. If it were just Damen and me with the bouncer, we would just kill him and move on.
But there are men all around here, filtering through the doorway. There are a couple of plainclothes guys looking around suspiciously, planted for security. I am willing to bet that they are strapped to the gills.
So, we wait until it is our turn, presenting the bouncer with our fake names and false identification. He barely looks at everything before waving us through.
Once we are in, we move through the lobby. Another man directs us to line up in a hallway outside a ballroom. He assures us the event will be starting at any moment.
We walk up into a line of probably twenty men. Adding to the ones outside, I estimate there are about forty bidders in total here.
“I do not like to be told to wait,” the older man in front of me says to his companion. To my shock, she is a very attractive woman in her thirties. She just smiles at him, taking his arm and patting it.
I glance at Damen, keeping my expression neutral. He flicks his gaze to the ballroom doors, where there is some movement.
With a flourish, the doors are thrown wide open. The dark-suited men before us in the queue push forward, eager to get inside. My heart jumps into my throat as the line moves forward.
I have a bad feeling in the pit of my belly. I cannot see much past the men in front of me, but when I glance upward, I see chains hanging all over the ballroom. Whatever that is, I do not know, but I do not feel good about it.
The line before me thins as the men are let into the ballroom. The breath leaves my lungs all at once as if I had been punched hard in the guts.
Each set of chains dangling from the ceiling is attached to a shivering, weeping, nearly nude woman. Each woman is dressed, if you choose to call it that, in nothing but fine golden chains. There are so many women to look at, so much sobbing. It is incredible to bear witness to so much misery in one single ballroom.
Men swarm around the rough wooden platforms containing the first few women. Some touch the slaves, feeling the weight of their breasts and trying to pry apart their thighs. I feel a little bit ill as I look around.
If circumstances were different, I would simply turn around and leave. But I cannot, not without Rue. I can feel my heart hammering in my chest as I scan the room for her, looking for a glint of her long copper locks and pale skin.
I catch a glimpse of fiery hair in the back of the room, on a head hanging so low that I cannot see her face. But I do not have to see any more than that; my heart grows ten sizes in my chest, making me push past the last few men and burst into the ballroom.
Damen is right behind me as I flatten myself against the wall, trying to squeeze my enormous bulk past the crowd of greedy-eyed men. I pull roughly at several of them to get by, my eyes on Rue.
A short blond man curses at me when I rip at his arm, snarling. But he takes one look at my size and the expression on my face and he moves out of the way.
When I am finally free of the bulk of the crowd, I make a beeline for Rue. I can see her lift her head; she is blindfolded, which is heaping cruelty on top of cruelty. Then again, it could be a kindness, making sure she does not see the men in suits beginning to circle around her.
But I see her crying, see her chest rising and falling raggedly. Pushing back the red that threatens to tinge my vision, I give myself a shake. In five huge sprinting steps, I reach the platform that Rue stands on.
An older man reaches out to feel Rue’s breast, squinting suspiciously as though she might be trying to trick him somehow. I hear her sharp intake of breath and see how she jerks her body away. That only makes the older man grasp her face instead, gripping her chin hard enough the make her cry out.
Locking my eyes on the place where he is touching her, I urge forward. Damen pulls me back at the last second, hissing into my ear.
“What are you doing, brother? You must be patient. We agreed in the car that we would try to buy her first, then we would fight our way out if that does not work.”
I am not able to look away from where the older man turns Rue’s head from one side to the other. Damen blocks my view, his expression determined.
“Look at me!” he says, his voice hushed.
I blink, my eyes refocused on his face. What was he saying? I cannot remember.
His blue-grey eyes narrow on my face. “Tell me you remember what we talked about in the car. We worked out a whole strategy.”
After a second, I nod. He is right, of course. We did decide to pose as buyers, specifically because we knew we would be vastly outnumbered and outgunned here in the auction. I close my eyes and take a breath in, summoning my resolve.
Shrugging out of his grip on my arms, I straighten my tie. “Okay. Y
ou are right. We have a plan. I can do it.”
He moves back, stepping out of my line of sight again. I look up, clenching my jaw when I see that the older man is gone, replaced by two younger, shorter ones. Both are fat and pasty, brothers or cousins if I had to guess. One of them is trying to work his hand between Rue’s thighs, grinning as he does it.
Fists clenching, I force myself to walk toward Rue slowly. There is a short, balding man standing beside Rue’s platform, answering the older man’s questions about Rue.
“She’s seventeen,” he says, rolling his eyes towards Rue. “The perfect age, don’t you think?”
It is almost impossible not to walk right up, grab that lying piece of shit by his collar, and demand that Rue be released into my care. But I stroll over to him, ignoring the pounding need I feel to touch Rue.
“How much?” I ask him, trying to be as casual as I can. I notice Rue’s whole body stiffen. Her head turns toward me, but I cannot afford to look at her.
If I do, I might completely lose my shit. Things in this ballroom would quickly become untenable, which would put Rue in danger.
And I have been enough of a bastard to her. I so, so badly want to avoid putting her in harm’s way any more than I have to.
He raises his eyebrows, glancing at me. I feel the weight of his appraising gaze, but I do not let it affect me. “For what?”
I narrow my eyes and draw myself up to my full height. “To take her off sale, right now. She goes with me, however long I want her for.”
Rue cocks her head, listening. She recognizes the sound of my voice, I realize. She knows I am here to rescue her.
The old man next to me scowls. “I’ll thank you to wait just a minute here—”
Rue’s minder does not even hesitate. “One point five million pounds. That’s cash, delivered here today.”
“Done,” I spit back. Sticking out my hand, I look the minder right in the eye. I do not have that kind of money just laying around, but Damen has access to the family funds. That will do, for now.
Protect: Protect Book 4 Page 3
