Breaking Hailey (Shadows of Obsession Book 1)
Saving Hailey: Chapter 7

TWO DAYS EARLIER

I puke, swallow a bite of sandwich and puke again.

My stomach riots against food, fear twisting it so tight I think it might be wrapped around my spine, but I eat. Curled around the toilet I take a bite, chew, swallow, and immediately let it out. Cold sweat breaks out on my back, hot flushes shake me from the tip of my head down to my toes…

But. I. Eat.

Not because I’m hungry. I eat because I’m scared of what Darius will do if I don’t fulfill his orders. That fear sloshing inside me like dirty water stops me keeping the food down.

It’s a closed circuit, but, ignoring the pain, the dryness in my throat, the acidic taste of bile, I eat because the room and the bathroom are under surveillance. A small camera on the wall follows my every move, pointing right at me. The diode blinks in the corner, letting me know I’m being watched.

I’m dressed in the pink monstrosity, not a dress by any definition, not even a night dress. It’s sheer lace, so short my ass is showing, so see-through it leaves nothing to the imagination.

I take another bite, swallowing puke as I chew. Flushing it down the toilet will probably cost me… puking it all out probably will too, but I can’t hold the food down.

The bathroom door flies open and Darius enters, two wrinkles creasing his big forehead. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Locked in my own misery, I’ve blocked out all sounds, but now the murmur of conversations filters in, letting me know I no longer have the room to myself.

“Leave it,” Darius orders. “You’re obviously not hungry and you need to give the others a chance to wash up.”

He grips me by the elbow, pulls me up, and shoves me toward the sink, snatching the half-eaten sandwich from my hand. “Brush your teeth.”

My legs are utterly useless. It hurts to bend my knees. Every step feels like it might be my last, like exhaustion will win and I’ll pass out at his feet.

I can’t pass out.

God only knows what he’d do while I’m unconscious. At least if I’m touching base with reality, I can think.

I can fight.

I can… I can’t.

It’s so obvious I can’t.

My body’s shaking like a baby deer on ice. Fear that Darius will fulfill his promise to rape me shrinks my stomach and makes my guts crawl up my esophagus.

I shove the toothbrush into my mouth, struggling to brush my teeth while nausea triggers my gag reflex.

“You’ll be no fucking fun on your knees if a toothbrush makes you gag,” Darius scoffs. “You’ll find my cock is much fatter.”

I shut my eyes, wishing I could turn back time.

I want Nash. I want his calmness, the safety of his touch, those dark eyes frantically checking me over for even the smallest injury…

He put my comfort first, and never did anything against my will. Even with all the lies he told, Nash is the lesser of two evils.

I’d take his betrayal over this nightmare any day.

But he’s not here, and the longer I think, the more I wonder if the flashback I had in the woods was the answer he was looking for. Maybe he didn’t care about whatever Darius wants. Maybe he has what he needs…

Now that he does I’m useless to him.

Still, a small, naïve part of me hopes he’ll find me. That he won’t let me die here. That the weeks we spent together meant something to him—to the criminal he really is, not just Nash.

“Let them in,” Darius says over his shoulder.

Another man barks an order in a foreign language, his words starting a commotion behind the wall. The chatter dies down and girls no older than me pour into the bathroom, all naked and holding towels as they beeline for the showers.

I openly stare, the toothbrush hanging from my lips, brows hitting my hairline. They’re all slender, some so skinny their bones are showing. Most look unaffected by their predicament, as if they expected this all along. Only one fearfully glances around, eyes darting away as they reach Darius.

“Fuck, I love shipment days.” Jax grins, following the last girl, his big hand cupping his crotch. “Look at all that pussy.”

Darius nods, showing off a row of white teeth as he rakes his filthy gaze over the soaped-up girls.

“Hurry up,” he snaps at me, adjusting his dick in his pants.

He and Jax watch the girls like they can’t wait to sink their teeth—or cocks—in them but there’s a particularly disturbing flavor of desire shining in Darius’s eyes when he scans my tear-stained face.

He gets off on fear and helplessness.

Instantly, as if itwill save me, I swipe my tears into a mask of indifference. I spit out the toothpaste, swallow a handful of water, and drop the toothbrush in the holder.

I don’t know whose toothbrush it is, how many have used it before me, or how many will use it after.

That’s the least of my problems.

Once I step away from the sink, Darius grabs my elbow again, digging his fingers into a tender spot between the bones. Blinding pain soars through my system when he finds a nerve, but I keep my expression neutral.

He’s not getting my tears. He’s not getting my tears. It’s a shitty defense technique, but I don’t have much else and I need to do something… anything tofeel like I’m fighting.

He drags me into the room where there are more naked girls awaiting their turn in the bathroom. I’m shoved onto the bed with number one hanging at its foot.

“Wait here until they’re all ready,” Darius instructs.

He moves away, taking a firm stance by the door. Three other men are strategically placed, dicks tenting their pants.

Sweeping a look over the girls, I spot a mane of shimmering washed-purple hair. Everyone else is either blonde or brunette, so this girl stands out like a beacon. She’s younger than most here, maybe my age, maybe not even that, and she’s the undeniable center of attention, all the men’s gazes trained on her.

No wonder.

She’s gorgeous. It’s not every day you meet someone with albinism. Her complexion is so pale it makes her look ethereal, and as she turns, I’m mesmerized by her white eyebrows, white eyelashes… and striking eyes, their color matching her violet hair.

She catches me staring, a scared but reassuring smile curving her lips. Mustering the little light left inside me, I smile back, then quickly drop my gaze to my fingers, picking a loose thread of my pink negligee.

I can’t make out the words from the hum of whispered chatter. I don’t recognize the language. Not until Jax barks another clipped sentence. I think it’s Russian.

Another ten girls enter the bathroom when the first group leaves. It takes fifteen minutes before all thirty of us sit on the beds and more men come in, lining the wall while Jax takes center stage, reciting a short monologue.

The atmosphere shifts from seemingly relaxed to tense, and one girl bolts up, pointing a finger at him. Her voice grows higher with her every word, face pink and enraged, hands flying every which way.

The exchange is short, clipped, and, from what I gather, pointless. It ends abruptly when Jax sneers, backhanding her so hard he splits her lip. His smile stretches as he straightens his back, watching more girls join the row, their words sounding like protests.

“Finally, a batch of fighters,” Darius beams. “It’s been a while. Round them up, boys.” He twirls his finger in the air, pushing away from the door and highballing straight toward me.

Chaos descends upon the room within seconds. Men jump forward, grabbing girls as they try to flee.

“The less you fight, the less it’ll hurt,” Darius tells me, leading me into the hallway.

A heartbeat later, girls are being ushered after us, pulled by their hands or thrown over the men’s shoulders. They’re tall and bulky while the girls are mostly petite. Short, skinny, dressed like me, in see-through lacy lingerie. Sobs, whimpers, and screams fill the air, but not all fight. Some come willingly, faces marshaled into looks of pure menace and confidence.

Everyone heads toward the end of the hallway. I can’t see much among the crush of people, but it looks like the room there is a dead end. There’s exactly zero chance to run for dear life while I’m surrounded by at least twenty armed men, but, on instinct, I whip my head the other way, watching as more girls are dragged from the room. Not figuratively. Literally.

One man drags a screaming girl, like a sack of flour, by her dark locks across the floor.

“This way,” Darius says, shoving me forwards.

Swallowing hard, I make my feet work, dragging them along the carpet. I’m no sack of flour.

There’s no escaping this nightmare. Holstered guns gleam everywhere I look, and I’m not brave enough to face gunfire, or whatever would come once they caught me.

Because they would catch me.

I can barely hold myself upright. I probably wouldn’t make it halfway down the stairs before someone kicked my back and sent me tumbling to the bottom.

A sense of dread fills my veins as Darius steers me into a grand ballroom. It’s enormous, at least a hundred feet long and just as wide, yet feels like a gilded cage.

The ceiling soars high above, decorated with elaborate moldings that twist and turn in unsettling patterns. My imagination cranks up the eeriness of the space. Any other day, I’d see the space’s beauty, but the panic coursing through me makes it impossible.

I don’t see the warm glow from the low-hanging chandeliers, only the shadows they cast. I don’t see the pillars stretching high to the ceiling for what they are: support. Instead, I see prison bars.

Old portraits adorn the walls, the painted faces like silent witnesses to our fear and desperation.

I swallow hard, glancing left and right at walls lined with antique furniture scattered without rhyme or rhythm. Small tables with two chairs, bigger ones without any, leather couches and benches, low coffee tables, tall stools: none are occupied. Not even those in front of a makeshift, unmanned bar. Crystal glasses line the counter beside dozens of bottles waiting to be emptied.

No one’s drinking yet. No one’s using the furniture. The men take a stance around the edges of a massive rug that dominates the room. It’s a masterpiece, stretching out like a canvas, each stitch telling a part of the story of Napoleon’s army, a landscape of distant battlefields brought to life with vibrant soldiers and horses.

Something like this should be displayed, not walked on. Though no one steps one foot on it as more men enter, leaving their girls at the front.

The air is thick with dust, cologne, and perfume, partially masking the stench of fear, but not even the soft music in the background lightens the atmosphere.

Darius stops by a long table just left of the entrance and my heart gallops faster. Whips, belts, and carpet beaters are laid out on a black cloth, each more menacing than the last.

“Your usual or are you mixing it up today?” the man behind the table asks, his voice dripping with sly eagerness.

“A viper doesn’t shed its venom, Desmond. Give me that one.” Darius points out a leather whip, the thong at least two meters long.

We move along, rounding the whole room, passing men who patiently wait for… something. Every step I take feels heavier, my body weighed down by dread as we move to the far edge of the rug, facing the entrance.

The rest of the girls are herded like cattle, standing in three rows on the opposite side of the ballroom, the door behind them now closed. Most are silently choking on their tears.

“Now watch and pay attention,” Darius says, gripping my elbow.

I wonder why he’s keeping me here instead of sending me to stand with the other girls.

He takes a firm stance, raising a hand for silence. Someone offers him a glass of amber liquid, and all eyes turn his way.

“Gentlemen!” he denotes. “It’s full house at the auction this weekend, including a few big players arriving to browse. I don’t have to tell you private buyers are what we’re aiming for, do I? We’ll need all the merch we have. Have fun, but break them and I’ll break your necks.” He takes a long gulp of his drink and every man in the room follows his lead. “Desmond! Let’s get this party started!”

“Grab that albino chick first!” someone yells.

The man from behind the table of torture steps forward, his eyes finding a girl dressed in dusty blue. The one with long, straight violet hair I stared at in the bedroom.

God, she’s so fucking beautiful… and so scared I can see her shaking from fifty feet away.

My palms turn clammy, and my breath flattens itself, like a child hiding under the bed from the monster, when ten men lift the front half of the rug. The girl is pushed to the ground, landing on her knees, while someone bellows a command in Russian.

I watch, in horror, as she starts crawling, her petite body quaking so hard she has trouble balancing on all fours. Once she’s more or less in the middle, the carpet drops, trapping her underneath.

“Watch,” Darius hisses, wrenching my jaw to turn my head.

Fear whips itself around my chest when one man places his foot on the rug. With a cruel snap, his belt strikes down. It’s three times as long and twice as wide as a normal belt, adorned with sharp, silver studs and a metal buckle with a prong so sharp it could bite into the scalp and, with a tug, rip it wide open.

The girl cries out, pain undoubtedly lacing her skin even through the thick carpet.

Another man joins, then another, and within seconds a cacophony of belts and whips lashing down fills the grand space. Save for Darius, not one man here isn’t torturing the girl while she crawls every which way.

It’s sick. Vile. It makes me want to scream, cry, and puke all at the same time while her screams pierce my eardrums.

One girl at the front of the room grabs the door handle, desperate to run, but the door is locked shut. Her blatant escape attempt costs her a kick to the back of her legs. She goes down, knees cracking against the parqueted floor.

Tears blur my vision as I scrutinize the other girls. They’re mostly shell-shocked, but a few seem unfazed. Like they’ve seen it before and know what to expect.

Or maybe they enjoy the premise.

People have all kinds of kinks… some enjoy degradation, some enjoy pain, and some prefer praise.

My mind drifts back to how Nash worshipped every inch of my skin. How he cradled me into his chest all night, both arms around me, his soft lips stamping tender kisses wherever he could reach.

He’s a liar I shouldn’t have trusted, but when I gave him my heart, he held it close and took care of it. He took care of me even while he was prying for information. Despite his lies, knowing not one moment we shared was real, I’d give my right arm to be with him now.

The girl under the rug reaches the left edge. I quake harder, seeing how the man standing closest unbuckles his belt, exposing his cock. As soon as her violet head peeks out, he fists her hair, hauls her up and forces his dick down her throat.

She slaps her hands against his thighs, trying to shove him away, but the more she fights, the more eager he seems.

Dropping the whip, he walks backward, dragging the girl with him until he falls onto the nearest leather couch, never once letting her take a breath. He holds his cock deep in her throat until he sits comfortably, and my mind floods with Alex. Every flashback of his cock in my mouth resurfaces, flickering before my eyelids, a cruel looped clip.

“Lucky fucker,” someone beside me says, snapping me out of one nightmare and straight into another.

The man on the couch wraps the girl’s violet hair around his wrist and gouges his fingers into her scalp, yanking her up only to ram her down quickly. Up and down, up and down, over and over, his head thrown back, eyes rolling into his head, lips parted to let out disgusting moans.

The other men shuffle about, extending the distances between them to patch the hole in formation he created.

The choking and gagging sounds are quickly overpowered by shrills when three more girls are shoved under the rug.

“You’re next,” Darius tells me, flexing his fingers around my elbow. “You know where I am. The quicker you get here, the less bruises you’ll collect.” He yanks me closer, my cheek hitting the handle of a knife taped to his bicep. “Don’t even think about veering left or right. Either you come here, or I’ll make sure every man in this room gets a turn with you.”

It takes thirty seconds for one of the girls to emerge five feet away, in front of a guy already palming his cock, but he isn’t interested in her mouth. He drags her out, spins her around, slams her against the nearest table, and fucks her from behind.

She cries out, then again even louder when he raps her head down. The sound of cheekbone connecting with the wooden top makes my stomach sink to my feet.

“Little princess is next,” Darius booms once the other two girls have been promptly dragged away.

Tears sting my eyes at the sound of horny grunts and pained whimpers, but I hold them in. And I don’t dare look around. I can’t watch them being raped. Just hearing it will give me nightmares for the rest of my life.

“Cross the room.” Darius shoves me forward, my cold, bare feet touching the rug.

Every man around stares at me with dark, heated eyes. Half have already pulled their dicks out, jerking off to the sickening sounds of distressed girls being raped on the sidelines. I take the first step, my vision swaying.

It’s a no-win situation.

I can’t get out of here without being raped.

What’s more, I have to willingly cross this room then crawl under the rug to get whipped from all directions.

One man is better than thirty. One dick is better than thirty.

I can’t believe Darius is my safest option.

I’m not far off passing out from fear and exhaustion, but now the adrenaline’s cranking my survival instinct to eleven.

I can’t pass out while there’s at least thirty men—armed with guns, knives, whips, and belts—watching my every move.

They lift the rug once I step off it. Following the three poor girls before me, I drop to my knees, crawling deeper and deeper toward the center.

My gag reflex kicks in when the rug falls, pinning me to the floor. It’s heavier than it looks… reeking of puke, piss, and sweat. It smells like desperation and shattered dreams. Like the worst nightmare.

The first whip lashes my back, pain lighting up my mind. I bite my tongue, muffling the scream tearing from my chest. Another whack, then one more, and more.

“Move,” Darius booms. “Crawl, you dumb bitch!”

What if I don’t?

What if I let them whip me until I pass out? Until I can’t hold onto reality?

“You have three seconds to move or I’ll pull the carpet off and you’ll have two dicks in your ass before you realize what the fuck’s happening.”

My heart lurches, threatening to break ribs.

One dick is better than thirty.

One dick is better than thirty.

I repeat the mantra, swallow the fear, brace on my elbows and crawl straight ahead.

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