Page 19 of Wicked and Bound

The gauzy excuse for a dress hanging in her closet made her stomach turn.

Her only human contact for days had been silent guards with her meals and the cold-eyed doctor force-feeding her vitamins. She’d swallowed them, figuring they wouldn’t risk damaging their ten-million-dollar “investment.”

The door opened. A guard filled the frame. “Spa time.”

“What kind of treatments?” Her voice cracked from disuse.

He didn’t answer, just grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hallway. Down they went, deeper into the compound’s bowels, past security checkpoints with retinal scanners and reinforced doors, until they reached a space that could have been any high-end spa.

Except for the screaming.

The open floor plan revealed women being “prepared” for tonight. Scissors snipped. Hair dryers whirred. The sharp scent of chemicals burned her nose—bleach, hair dye, wax. Some women sat quietly as stylists worked, their eyes dead. Others were stripped and waxed raw, their skin angry red. In one corner, a woman thrashed against restraints while another woman approached with a piercing needle and lifted a towel to reveal her bare breasts.

“No! Please. Don’t—” Her pleas cut off in a shriek that echoed off the marble floors.

“Master Brady is gifting her with a set of weighted nipple rings,” one worker commented to another. “He does love his jewelry.”

Haisley’s knees nearly buckled. Oh, god. What had Jasper ordered for her?

Near the shampoo stations, she spotted Kaylee Wright. The girl who’d sparked their investigation looked half dead inside, her eyes vacant. A stylist roughly yanked her head back to rinse her hair.

“Kaylee,” she whispered, hoping to sneak a word with the brunette.

The girl’s head snapped up. She frowned, confused. Wary. Like a beaten animal.

Before Haisley could say any more, a sharp-faced woman in a white coat appeared, her heels clicking menacingly on the tile. “No talking between merchandise. Next infraction means punishment.”

Her tight smile and gleaming eyes suggested she’d enjoy meting it out.

The guard shoved Haisley into a chair beneath harsh fluorescent lights. Through the mirror, she watched Amy being led into a private room. The door closed. Locked. Moments later, she heard pleading, then a blood-curdling scream that pinged off every wall and seemingly rattled every victim in the spa. Finally, sobbing filtered through the wall, unnerving her even more.

Haisley’s hands trembled as they wrapped her in a plush robe that smelled of lavender and money. To her surprise, what followed was almost normal—a facial that might have been relaxing if her heart wasn’t racing, a massage she endured while plotting escape routes, her skin crawling at every touch. The mani-pedi felt like shackles being decorated, each stroke of polish another chain.

During the cloyingly scented seaweed wrap, she tried engaging the technician. “How can you be part of this? Do you know what’s happening to these other women? These women are being?—”

“Treatment questions only,” the woman snapped, tightening the wrap until it hurt. “Another word and I'll have them bring the gag. You won’t like it.”

Two new workers attacked her face with brushes and sponges, discussing her like a piece of furniture. “Good bone structure.”

“Master King paid a premium; she needs to look it.” They transformed her into someone else—smoky eyes, red-light-district lips, and fiery hair tousled, as if she’d spent a night in pleasure.

In the mirror, Haisley caught glimpses of other “breeders” being finished. Their faces were masks of terror beneath perfect makeup. That transparent scrap of silk they’d given her to wear would offer no more protection than their cosmetics.

She’d hoped someone here—someone who wasn’t a guard or doctor—might help. Might see the wrongness of what happened on this island. But these spa workers were just as complicit, just as cruel, chatting about “merchandise” and “stock” as if they were preparing cattle for auction.

JasperTheDick. She’d been clinging to hope that he was her old online friend coming to help. The one who’d encouraged her amateur sleuthing, who had seemed to understand her passion for justice. But what kind of hero bought a woman to breed her? What kind of savior ordered her beautified for his pleasure?

The stylist arranged, brushed, and teased her hair for over an hour into an elaborate cascade of curls that spilled past her shoulders and drifted down her back.

“Perfect,” she declared. “You will surely please your master well tonight. They love when their property looks innocent but ready to be ruined.”

Haisley caught her own reflection. She appeared innocent and wanton at once. Together with her negligee of a dress, she looked exactly like what she was meant to be: an expensive toy.

They’d made her beautiful for her own violation.

In a few hours, she’d face JasperTheDick, wearing nothing more than a scrap of silk. In front of God knew how many people, she’d be “claimed.”

And sometime after that, he’d rape her over and over until she conceived.

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