I Thee Take: To Have and To Hold Duet Book Two

by Knight, Natasha

  Committed.

  “Grigori,” Dante says, sitting back in his chair as I survey what’s beyond the gates. More armed soldiers, smoking, a few feet away. Lights from the house, about a mile farther down, and more than a dozen vehicles dotting the place. At least of those I can see.

  “I gotta take a piss,” Dante says to the man.

  “Just a minute. Let the man do his job,” I tell him.

  “They could pay a fucking monkey to do this job faster,” he mutters half in English half in Italian. The monkey part loud and clear.

  “What did you say?” the soldier asks.

  The man at the back knocks his fist twice on the trunk.

  “Pop the trunk,” the one from the back yells.

  I do. “Is there a problem?” There’s nothing in there but a spare tire.

  “Your name doesn’t appear to be on my list,” he says, eyes narrowing on us. His accent sounds local.

  “Clean,” the man at the back says, closing the trunk.

  “Then your list is wrong.” I turn to Dante. He’s waiting for my signal. I need to get inside. If I have to kill these fuckers to do it, I will but I don’t want to sound the alarm.

  “I don’t think…” the man starts then stops. “Shit!”

  I follow his gaze to where another vehicle drives erratically toward us from inside the gates. It’s a large SUV and I can only make out the shadows of the two in the front seat. The driver honks his horn angrily.

  “Petrov,” the one with the clipboard says.

  “Mother fucker,” the other one curses.

  The driver lays on his horn opening his window and flipping us or the guards or the whole lot of us off as he barrels toward us and even over the music, I can hear him laughing.

  “Fucking asshole,” clipboard guy says as he jumps backward.

  I hit the gas and pull through the gates, only managing to miss the SUV by a hair. In the rearview mirror I see it swerve as if to run over the soldiers.

  “Who the fuck is fucking Petrov?” Dante asks.

  “He’s the asshole that got us in,” I say once we’re far enough away from the gates that I can’t see the soldiers stationed there anymore.

  “Two guards at the front door,” Dante says.

  I park the car where I have a clear exit, avoiding the collected SUVs and sedans with drivers sitting inside, smoking their cigarettes, smoke wafting out of the cracked open windows.

  Lightning crashes over head as the lights blink once, twice. The soldiers at the door look at each other with uncertainty.

  “Front door,” Dante says, opening his door.

  “Let’s go get my wife.”

  We climb out of the car, adjust our jackets and walk at a normal pace through the rain. One of the soldiers tosses the butt of his cigarette, gives us a nod as the other opens the heavy door.

  I make a note of the soldiers stationed inside as we enter a hallway where a woman stands ready to take our coats. Except, we’re not wearing any. My brother gives her a nod and a wink. Women always liked Dante. He can be charming. When he wants.

  I hear the sound of a harp. Pretty music. Soft music. Music that doesn’t belong here. It’s coming from beyond the heavy curtains separating the vestibule from the room beyond.

  The gong strikes as two women pull the curtains aside.

  Dante and I stand side-by-side taking it in, the opulence, the excess. The money. So much money you can almost smell it.

  Candles are being lit around the room. Backup I guess, as thunder claps and the lights dim then return.

  We step in and the curtains are dropped behind us.

  Men in suits stand talking, smoking cigars, drinking what I’m sure is the finest whiskey. About fifteen of them. Half that number are weaving through with trays of drinks and food. Six soldiers stand along the perimeter of the room.

  The lights go down. This isn’t because of the storm outside.

  I notice the absence of women in here. Even the servers are men. When the gavel hits the podium, I shift my attention to the older man standing on the left of a small stage where the curtain is still down.

  “Gentlemen,” the man begins elegantly.

  I take the opportunity to look around, searching for Pérez or anyone else I might recognize. I don’t. But like Charlie said, these men are likely decoys sent in to make the purchase and keep the identity of the buyer secret.

  “The final piece of tonight’s auction. This is a special offering from our friend, Mr. Felix Pérez with slightly different rules.”

  Again, I look for him. For our friend. But he’s nowhere to be found.

  “She’s a beauty, as you’ll soon see…” he begins as the curtains lift and I see my brother watching the stage in my periphery. Every nerve ending in my body comes alive. As my blood begins to pump red hot through my veins, the drumming against my ears muffles Dante’s muttered curse.

  “She’s a gift for you. Each of you. Here for your pleasure to close a successful evening,” the man continues. The rising curtain reveals feet shackled together, the chain between them allowing only minimal movement, effectively hobbling her. Chain links climb along slender legs each binding a shackled wrist to those around her ankles.

  “There’s only one rule: take your fill.”

  There’s a woot from the men as more of the woman is exposed.

  “Highest bidder will have first use of her, then the second highest and so forth and so on until you’ve all had a turn. We’ll begin the bidding in a moment once you’ve had a good look.”

  Her sex comes into view, the slit visible to the pleasure of the gathered men. Her flat belly is next, then her breasts, small and taut. Her face held high, hair behind her shoulders, cheekbone bruised where Felix had slapped her. The bright light is blinding her, making it impossible for her to see them. This sea of men.

  Making it impossible for her to see me.

  To see that I’ve come for her.

  42

  Scarlett

  “You won’t be walking out of here tonight.”

  Did she mean that literally? Because if this is Felix’s plan for me, then I’ll be fucked by every man out there in turn.

  I hear the woot of the onlookers once the curtain is fully raised. I can’t see much of them and I think that’s on purpose. The spotlight follows me even when I turn my head.

  A man calls out a ridiculous number and makes a lewd comment. Several laugh out loud as the auctioneer chuckles into his microphone, tapping his gavel twice to get everyone’s attention.

  “You haven’t even seen it all yet,” he notes in a sing-song voice.

  Two sets of hands take hold of my arms and force me to turn. When they do, I catch a glimpse of the blinking red light coming from the top corner of the room.

  Felix is recording this. Is it for me? Well, I should say is it for him? To show those who won’t pledge loyalty to him what happens if you are his enemy? Or is it to hold onto after these men leave. Material to blackmail them when it suits him.

  Not that it matters one way or the other for me. My ending doesn’t change, camera or no camera.

  The soldiers pull me forward making me bend all the way over. I fight but it’s no use. I can see them now, the men in the room. The spotlight is on another part of my anatomy and now I can see their faces. There’s more than a dozen of them.

  The auctioneer describes my attributes as I’m held down. One of the soldiers twists his hand in my hair when I try to move, forcing my gaze into the room. I close my eyes, feel hot tears burn my face.

  This is my end? Attacked by these men then murdered? Diego and Angel were lucky then.

  I think about Cristiano. Dead already. I think about Noah out there. God, please let him be safe. Please don’t let him be waiting for me. Searching for me.

  I think about Mara with that man.

  The things she has seen. The things she has yet to see.

  I think about those other girls already sold tonight. And the barn the woman men
tioned.

  I steel myself, open my eyes just as I’m straightened, lifted, turned so quickly I stumble, dizzy with the rush of blood.

  For a brief instant, my mind plays a trick on me. Because what I’m seeing can’t be real. It can’t be him. But there, for the briefest instant before the spotlight shines in my eyes, I see Cristiano.

  I’d recognize his eyes in a crowd of a hundred. A thousand.

  Cristiano.

  I blink, try to see him again, but I’m blinded once more. All I can do is stand there and listen to the monsters call out numbers. Hear them buy parts of my body, my soul. Hear the gavel slam down as those sales are recorded.

  And just as I’m lifted off the pedestal and carried off the stage, as if on cue, lightning crashes overhead and the lights go out.

  43

  Cristiano

  The room goes sideways, my brain rattling against my skull.

  Dante’s hand closes swiftly over my shoulder. “Steady.”

  I fist my hands, clenching and unclenching, my blood boiling. I reach blindly for my gun.

  “Hey.” Dante steps in front of me, voice firm as he takes my arms and shakes me hard.

  I blink. Focus my eyes.

  The lights have gone out. The room is lit only by candles now. More are being lit around us.

  My vision adjusts after a moment. When it does, I see the table in the far corner that had been unoccupied before, busy now. A man sits behind it punching numbers into a machine while another man dictates to him. One of the attendees.

  “Good,” Dante says. “Focus. You take your pistol out here and she’s as good as dead.”

  I nod, my eyes on the back of the man paying for his turn at Scarlett.

  “First. Lucky bastard,” the accountant says, standing to shake the man’s hand once the transaction is complete. “I hope there will be something left when I take a turn.”

  The man laughs, pats the accountant on the shoulder with a big, meaty hand. He must weigh four-hundred pounds.

  “Carlos,” the accountant calls. “If you’ll show our guest the way.”

  Carlos steps forward, nods. He’s a big guy and armed. He walks ahead of the fat man and they slip through a door at the far corner. Another solider promptly steps in front of the door to block anyone else from passing through.

  I take another step toward it. Meet the soldier’s eyes.

  “Cris,” Dante says, voice low but firm. “Focus.”

  I nod, turn to look around the room again. A door opens at the far end and one of the men reenters as he zips his pants.

  “Let’s go,” I say as we move toward that unguarded door. We walk through and step into a corridor lit only by candles and the occasional flash of lightning from the window. Several doors line the corridor and I know the one I’m looking for is the one where a soldier stands guard.

  “Bathroom,” my brother says to him.

  The man points to the opposite end of the hall and we walk in that direction. The door he’s blocking is glass, so I can see the fat man when we pass. He’s climbing some stairs at the far end.

  “Gentlemen,” the soldier says. “Move on.”

  I didn’t realize I’d stopped. I shift my gaze to meet his. He’s my height. My build.

  “My brother drank a little too much,” Dante says, coming to put an arm around me.

  I wonder if I appear drunk. I’m not fully myself, that’s for sure. My heartbeat is strong, loud in my ears, blood rushing. I have tunnel vision. I see one thing. Getting to that man. Getting to Scarlett.

  The soldier nods, expression unchanging. He holds my gaze and folds his arms across himself.

  I reach into my back pocket, using something out of Marcus Rinaldi’s playbook, push the button on the switchblade and, without a moment’s hesitation, push the blade into his gut.

  He doesn’t have time to blink before it happens. Before the knife is forced so deep in his stomach, I feel the soft, mushy insides against my hand.

  I thrust deeper, getting close enough to hold him upright, one hand around his arm, my body pressing his to the door.

  His eyes have gone wide, his hand frozen on its way to reaching for his weapon.

  I twist once more, feel his full weight on me as his knees buckle. A choked sound comes from his throat before a trail of blood seeps from the corner of his mouth.

  “Fuck,” Dante says from behind me.

  I pull the blade out, wipe it on the man’s shirt as Dante catches his other arm.

  “What about getting in, getting Scarlett and getting out?” he asks as we drag the man’s heavy body to the bathroom.

  “Fuck that.”

  “Oh yeah? And why is that? Because you want an army coming after us?”

  “Because I’m going to kill every mother fucker in this place before I walk out tonight.”

  We drop him in the bathroom. Dante looks at me. He grins. “We’re going to kill every mother fucker in this place. We, Brother.”

  44

  Scarlett

  The chains that bind my wrists to my ankles are removed and my arms are stretched overhead, bound to a metal rung on the headboard. I’m flipped onto my stomach, the cuffs clanging as I’m tugged downward. The link that hobbled me is also removed. My legs are pulled apart, stretched to either corner of the bed and linked to the rungs there.

  The two men responsible for preparing me, stand back and look down at me. One tugs the pillow out from under my head and shoves it beneath my belly. He nods, meets my eyes and cups his erection.

  “I’ll take your ass when it’s my turn,” he says in Spanish. “Save me a piece.”

  I spit at him.

  He slaps my ass.

  “Hey,” the other soldier interrupts and points to the corner where I see one of those flashing red lights again. The camera is hidden but the soldiers know about it. They must be Felix’s men. “After.”

  The man glances at the blinking light, nods then returns his attention to me. “If there’s anything left.”

  They walk out but don’t close the door. Instead, they stand in the hall looking at me as one lights a cigarette. I tug at my restraints but it’s no use. I already know that.

  Cigarette smoke wafts in from the hallway. I twist my neck to look toward the door, as the sound of another man, one with a hoarse voice and a heavy Russian accent floats into the room. It makes me think of Petrov. Of Mara.

  But honestly, it’s hard not to think about myself now. Maybe I should have accepted the pill from the bitch downstairs. Killed myself before they could have their fun.

  I close my eyes and steel myself, or try to, as the voices grow closer. I know the man is standing just outside the door. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to. I can imagine the view.

  They speak for a few minutes before I hear the door close and the man sighs deeply.

  “A pretty gift,” he says as the bed dips beneath his weight. He puts a hand on my hip.

  “Don’t touch me!” I hiss, tugging away the inch I’m able to.

  “Oh, I will do more than touch you,” he says, standing again, taking off his jacket. He tosses it over the back of a chair. He doesn’t bother taking off his shirt. He just opens his belt, then the crotch of his pants. He fists himself.

  I look at it, at his little dick barely visible under his grotesque belly, how it practically disappears in the palm of his hand. I grin, blink, and shift my gaze back up to his.

  “Is that all?” I ask. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it. “I’m not sure I’ll even feel that.”

  His hand stops moving. He releases his dick to grab a fistful of my hair and tug my head back painfully. “I’ll pay extra to cut out your tongue once your mouth is used up.”

  “Be careful. Your dick is going flaccid.”

  He pushes my face into the pillow, smothering me. I fight as oxygen is cut off. I feel him climb onto the bed, feel the rough fabric of his pants brush the insides of my legs.

  Just when I think I’ll pass out, h
e releases my head and I gasp for breath. His hands are on my ass spreading me open.

  “No!”

  “Pretty little pussy you have here. Prettier than your mouth.”

  “Please!” I beg. I don’t mean to. I don’t want to. I know it will mean nothing to them. No, not nothing. It’ll probably turn these men on. “Get the fuck off me, you asshole!” I shout instead, struggling against my bonds, trying to get away from him even though it’s impossible.

  I fight hard. I scream. I can’t just take it. I won’t.

  When did I start to sob, though?

  He tugs at my bonds, does something to stretch my legs so tight I can barely move an inch. I try again, though. Try to kick, to move. Anything.

  “Better,” he says.

  A finger brushes my opening and I freeze.

  “Please,” my voice trembles.

  He leans over me. “Not so tough now, are you?” he asks, breath hot and dank against my cheek.

  I close my eyes and feel myself wilt. Because it’s done. Finished. I drop my head.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  The door opens. Is it the next man early to take his turn?

  But then I hear a grunt and feel the monster at my back. I can’t think about anything else but the violation. I feel him against me, the bulk of him pressing heavy on my back, crushing me. I feel him, warm, wet, slimy, and slippery. All I can do is sob. All my strength, my fight has leaked out of me and all that’s left are my sobs.

  I hear a thud then. I look over to see what made that sound. It’s the man. He’s on the floor. It takes me a moment to register that he’s gone from my back. To register that I can breathe again.

  But other hands touch me then. The blanket tugged out from under me, tossed over me.

  I scream as this next man takes his place.

  I scream at the new assault to come.

  “Fury.” The word is spoken so quietly I’m not sure if it’s real or just my mind playing tricks.