Page 106 of Wicked and Claimed

“And if she gets pregnant?” Trees asked softly.

The question felt like a punch in the face. Nash forced down memories of his past reluctance to have kids and the mystery of her previous pregnancy. “We’ll deal with that if we have to. Getting her out safely comes first. Walk me through the cover details again. All of it. I can’t afford a single mistake.”

Because Haisley’s life depended on his performance. On every decision, on every gesture, on every word that came out of his mouth.

Hunter grilled him, Ethan, and Kane until they were perfect, backward and forward.

“You leave at dawn,” Hunter said finally. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, you start playing your parts.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Sunlight sparkled off the Caribbean water beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, mocking Haisley with its beauty. She paced the gilded cage, fingers trailing over chrome accents and plush gray fabrics that probably cost more than her yearly salary. Everything gleamed—polished mirrors, marble surfaces, crystal light fixtures.

Beautiful. Expensive. Utterly impossible to use as a weapon.

She’d spent days examining every inch of this suite. The windows were hurricane-proof, reinforced with steel mesh she could see glinting between the layers. The elegant metal fixtures were welded in place. Even the books and movies provided felt like a taunt—erotic tales full of sex, as if preparing her for tonight’s “claiming.”

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.

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