Page 1 of Darkest Sin

1

CHIARA

The harsh, bright lights shine down against my clammy skin as I suck in a shaky breath, wishing I could wake from this nightmare. Men wearing expensive business suits fill the dark room, their chilling stares sailing over my lingerie-clad body like a piece of meat. They’re nothing but sick hunters searching for their next victim.

Tears of humiliation linger on my cheeks as fear and rage pound through my veins like a lethal cocktail, threatening to take me out. And for the first time in my life, I wish it would. The sweet agony of death is my only salvation now.

I don’t belong here.

One minute I was walking home from the bar where I work, and the next . . .

I cut off the memory before it gets too far. Replaying that moment only sends me into a whirlpool of vicious thoughts. It’s a tragic cycle I can’t break free from.

My hands shake violently as I grip the bars of my cage, trying not to make eye contact with the men lingering around me. Their putrid stares scan over my body, assessing everything from the size of my tits and the shape of my curves to the color of my skin and every little imperfection. It’s unsettling and undignified. It’s like they’re looking over the prize for some fucked-up business deal . . . but I guess that’s exactly what I’ve been reduced to.

A prized piece at an auction, the highest bidder takes all.

I’m struggling with what to do and how to act. I don’t know what they’re looking for, and one wrong move could be disastrous. Do I follow the disgusting commands spat at me by the man who snatched me off the street, or should I put up a fight and die with dignity? But more importantly, when a man inevitably drags me home, what should I do when he throws me down, pries my legs open, and tries to take what isn’t his?

Bile rises in my throat, and I force myself to swallow it down.

The idea that this has become my life in just a matter of days is unbelievable. This isn’t real. It’s just some fucked-up nightmare I can’t escape.

A thick, black harness decorates my body, starting at my throat like a choker. It travels over my shoulder and to my tits, making geometric shapes across my skin. Bands strap around my ribs then down to my waist, connecting to my thighs like suspenders. I wear a matching thong with my long golden hair pulled back into a tight pony to complete the look. If it weren’t for the messed-up situation I was in, I might even consider buying something like this for myself. But wearing it in front of all these strangers makes me feel like a used whore.

The first night as their captive, they threw me into a cold, dark cell, and eventually, the distant cries of other prisoners lulled me into an uneasy sleep. I startled awake hours later to a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over my head, and as I screamed for help, a group of men stripped me from my work uniform. Their hands were all over me, scrubbing me clean and cataloging my every scar, tattoo, and piercing.

The fear of the unknown gripped me. What was happening to me? What did they want with me? Where the fuck was I going to end up? I’ve never been one to be home-sick when away, but I’ve never wanted the safety of my home more.

I told myself that was as bad as it was going to get. That I’d be locked up in a dirty cell for some asshole’s sick pleasure, that listening to the other girls weeping was what my life would be from there on out.

I shouldn’t have been so naive.

Standing here in this cage as a pawn in their sick game, I realize this is only the beginning. There are at least four or five other girls I can see, each of them locked in identical cages around the room and dressed just like me—hooker heels and dark makeup—under the watchful eye of the asshole in charge.

I don’t know his name, only that he has the most sinister stare I’ve ever seen. He watches us like a hawk, his sharp gaze missing nothing. The very second I get the chance, I fully intend on slitting the bastard’s throat. I’ve never been one to wish death on anyone. I was raised to be a good girl with high standards and excellent morals, but right now, I’m ready to throw it all away. My soul be damned.

The room is like some kind of underground warehouse decked out with a bar and dirty couches. Men linger in every available space, their gazes sailing over the caged women with interest. Their designer suits and expensive Rolexes warn me that these are the type of men who are not used to the word no. Some are older, probably looking for a girl to suck their dicks because their wives won’t anymore. In contrast, others are younger, mid-thirties with sickening stares. The new generation of business rapists who purchase women like it’s an elite sport and boast over a glass of whiskey just how hard he hit it.

Is this what my life is going to be? A bought whore for a sinister man?

Trying to look past the men, I focus on the room. There are four exits, two of which I’ve been down already, and they only take you deeper into the connected tunnels—somewhere I don’t plan on ever going again. The two remaining exits are across the room, almost the furthest point from me.

One is guarded and used as the main entrance. A set of steep stairs leads up to the metal door where a big burly man stands watch over the events below like a security guard. Every now and then, he turns to the door, checks off a name, and allows another asshole into the lair below.

The final exit is behind the bar with an identical set of stairs leading up to the door. It’s not guarded, but with the heavy padlocks and chains, it’s clear no one will be escaping through there tonight.

Glancing at the other girls, I see them looking around, just as I am, with nothing but defeat in their eyes. We all know the likelihood of getting out of here is non-existent. And I hate to say it, but if I got free somehow, I’d take off at a million miles an hour, never looking back. It’s every woman for themselves.

A filthy old man steps up to my cage, his sickening gaze trailing up and down my body as his eyes fill with hunger, a nearly empty glass of whiskey resting in his hand. He must be well into his seventies, old enough to be sporting wrinkly balls and a leaky cock. He carries himself with an air of importance, and I bet he’s the CEO of some bullshit Fortune 500 company, raking in billions of dollars. He’s probably got countless sexual assault charges against him from all the secretaries he’s abused, though I’m sure each case is mysteriously resolved before seeing a courtroom. His wife probably got fed up with the embarrassment of it all and told him to go purchase himself a whore. I wonder if this is what the old bitch had in mind.

“What’s your name, girl?” he rumbles, his deep tone making my skin crawl.

I fix him with a dead stare and indicate the nameplate on the top corner of my cage. “What? Don’t you read?” I question.

The old man’s gaze shifts up to the nameplate, probably not used to having a young woman speak to him in such a tone. “Misty?” he says with a scoff. “You and I both know that’s not your real name. Who are you?”

A grin pulls at my lips, and I let him see exactly what kind of woman he’ll be dealing with if he doesn’t fuck off and leave me alone. Gripping the bars, I lean in close, watching the way his eyes fill with hesitation. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare.”

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