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 mandragsa 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.
