Page 55 of Tricked By Jack
“Sacrifices,” Eve murmurs.
“Yeah, the highest tier,” I absentmindedly explain. “Most areas are open to Spectators and Shadows as well. But the best ones are only for Sacrifices.” I wonder if she knows those are the names for the different ticket holders.
“Right, right, the tiers,” she mumbles, unknowingly answering my question.
We walk closer to a passage where two guards in blood-splattered executioner’s hoods stand at attention, their axes gleaming dully in the low light.
“This way,” I say, nodding to the guards, who immediately step aside. Perks of ownership. The atmosphere shifts from carnival to something darker, more primal.
Slaughter Stage H display features a realistic beheading scene—an actress strapped to a wooden block, her severed head projected as a hologram while her real head remains hidden beneath the structure.
Blood pumps from the neck stump in rhythmic spurts, splattering the front row of observers who shriek with delighted disgust.
Eve’s breathing changes as we watch—quicker, shallower. Not fear, exactly. Fascination.
“The arterial spray pattern is accurate,” she notes, her voice clinical but her body betraying her with the subtle press of her thighs together. “Someone did their anatomical research.”
“My brother’s team consults with medical professionals,” I explain, my mouth close to her ear. “For authenticity.”
We move deeper into the restricted area, where the displays grow increasingly explicit. On another stage, performers engage in a grotesque orgy—bodies writhing in stylized movements that suggest sex and gore.
It’s so real I can’t tell if it’s fake or oneof the troops Carolina found on the dark web. Their skin is painted to resemble classical marble statues cracked with black veins, as if corruption spreads through their stone flesh.
One woman straddles a man whose face is hidden behind a shattered porcelain mask, his hands clamped on her hips as she grinds down on him. Blood—real or staged—slides between her exposed breasts, pooling in the dip of her stomach before streaking over marble-painted ribs.
A second man is behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other locked around her throat, holding her still while he bites deep into her shoulder until her head snaps back in what’s half scream, half moan.
Beside me, Eve’s breathing changes. She doesn’t make a sound, but I catch the subtle tightening of her thighs, the way her gaze sticks to the scene as if she’s trying to decide whether it repels her or drags her under.
Her eyes flick to mine for half a beat, the corner of her mouth curling before she looks back at the stage—as if daring me to acknowledge she knows I’m watching her.
That tiny, knowing twist in her lips makes my cock stir—not at the scene, but at her letting me see the effect it’s having on her. She’s not the type to ask me to take her there… not yet—maybe not ever. But she’s imagining it, all the same.
“Aroused, wife?” I murmur, my hand sliding from her elbow to her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hip.
“Just analyzing theatrical technique,” she counters, but the lie is obvious in the flush creeping up her neck.
With a dark chuckle, I lead us to where we need to be. The crowd thickens as we approach our destination.
Chapter 19
The Bride
After a few twists and turns, Slaughter Stage C rises ahead—washed in blood-red light that stains everything in shades of menace. As we draw closer, I make out two lines of people positioned center stage.
The women—Brides—are dressed in varying renditions of my own indecent outfit, which is to say they’re barely covered at all. My dress might actually be the one offering the most cover. The fabric clings like a second skin, black and slick as spilled ink beneath the lights.
Thin straps cross over my chest in a deliberate tangle, framing more than they conceal, before twisting behind my neck. The cutout bares the curve of my ribs and the flat of my stomach, cinched only by a silver ring that holds the skirt together at my hip.
From there, the material drapes low, a single slit climbing high enough to make walking feel like a performance—each step a risk, each shift of fabric a promise I didn’t agree to make.
Though I tried to fight Jack when he forced me into it, I secretly love the outfit. It’s daring, it’s sexy. It’s… mine. When I find a way to escape him, I’m definitely taking it with me.
While the Brides face the audience gathering below the stage, the Grooms stand with their backs to the onlookers. They’re clad in black that echoes Jack’s attire.
It’s unfair how good he looks in those black ripped jeans that are hanging low on his hips, and the open leather jacket framing the hard lines of his torso like it was made for him.
He’s not wearing anything underneath, and despite myself, I want to twirl his chest hair around my finger.
