Vick is a professional.
I DIG my nails a little deeper into Vick’s thigh, conveying that this isn’t lust. It’s nerves. She glances sideways at me, lips tight, jaw muscles taut, eyes revealing nothing. But her hand falls over mine beneath the table, prying my fingers free and wrapping them in her own. She gives a little squeeze, sets my hand back in my own lap, and withdraws.
Someone reaches over my shoulder to remove my untouched soup bowl, now cooled, and shifts my salad plate from the side to the center. I hear it scrape the base plate, but my eyes are focused on the stage and what inhumane display is about to take place upon it. To my right, the server named Cate takes up a position directly behind Vick while other attractive servants/slaves do the same behind the other VIPs, but not the assistants, myself and the small man on my left. I guess we don’t warrant that kind of attentiveness.
The spotlights come up and the audience lets out a cheer and applauds. Some of the less refined stomp their feet, whistle, or bang their glasses against the tables in a barbaric display, though most of the VIPs are fairly quiet. A naked woman appears at each end of the stage, one blond, fair-skinned, about my height and build, meaning above average breasts, narrow waist, wide hips. The other is deeply tanned, tall, muscular, with smaller breasts and long, straight, dark hair that reaches all the way down to tease by covering them, the deep pink nipples just peeking through. They’re both young, though not as young as Cate, but their eyes are aged, telling a story of haunted seriousness, a tad glazed like they’re more drugged than their audience.
Sweat beads on the tanned one’s upper lip and forehead. Our seats are so close I can see tremors rippling through those taut muscles, like she’s resisting whatever it is she’s about to do and losing that fight. I’ve seen Vick like this, struggling to overcome her brainwashing, fighting to turn down missions she is too exhausted or stressed to be taking on, and failing.
The blond’s trembling seems more born of fear than fight, and indeed when I let my walls down just a tad, I can see the deep purple hue of her fright surrounding her, though it’s mixed with a generous helping of lavender lust. It’s always seemed odd to me that two very different emotions would reveal themselves in such similar colors. I’ve never seen them together before. I wish I wasn’t seeing them now. Because the only reason I can come up with for such disparate feelings in the same person is drugs.
Not only are the two women slaves on display for sale, but they’ve been given something to compel them to show off more than their bodies for the pleasure of the gathered crowd.
I’m glad I haven’t eaten anything. Otherwise I might lose it right now.
A third light comes on, illuminating the center of the stage, where a large bed has been placed facing the gathered assembly.
Oh. Wow.
This is what Vick tried to tell you, a tiny voice whispers in my head. She tried to protect you from all this, but you insisted she needs you.
She does need me. Just maybe not right here.
If I focus all my attention on the numbers on my pad and ignore the stage, I’ll get through this. I scroll some more, not really seeing anything, but keeping my eyes lowered. The sound system picks up the rustling of skin against a mattress, then flesh brushing flesh. There must be microphones embedded in the damn headboard to capture such subtle sounds. Regardless, my mind is oh so helpfully filling in visuals for what my ears hear, even though I refuse to raise my head.
I glance to the side where Vick watches the stage, expression composed, eyes analytical—every inch the prospective buyer evaluating pricey merchandise. No sign of eagerness or arousal. Nothing to give away a particular interest that might encourage Jacks to raise his opening bids, because Jacks is indeed watching the watchers. I spot him beside the stage at floor level. He’s fixated on the VIPs, making notes on a pad of his own. And—
Beep. On my pricelist the listings for Saarah and Hodei jump by over a thousand credits each.
Jacks knows his business.
The rustling coming from the hidden speakers shifts to heavier breathing and the occasional soft moan. Murmured approval from the audience picks up in volume.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Instead I lean back, checking out the competition as I suppose a good assistant might do. The male on my left, working for the woman on his far side, is doing the same. We exchange a tight smile before he returns his attention to his datapad. His employer, the only other woman at the VIP table, appears anything but pleased. Odd. She’s not analyzing or appraising like Vick. Instead, she’s sitting ramrod straight, shoulders tight, muscles tense. Her expression suggests she’s just eaten something sour, but the salads contained no citrus. Dark, deep shadows around her eyes accentuate the lines of age on her face. I lower my shields for a second, internally recoiling at the anger and strain within this woman.
She also looks familiar somehow, like I should know who she is but can’t quite place her. I’m about to raise my shields and ask Vick what she thinks when there’s another, stronger sense flaring up amidst the sea of lust and wanton desire surrounding me. It’s rage and aggression and a desire to satisfy a sexual frustration so intense that it treads close to murderous.
No surprise that a combination like this would be present here. Many, if not most slave buyers would project that toxic mix of emotions. What’s surprising is how well I’m reading it, even if I can’t identify the source. Whoever is projecting so strongly must share some small percentage of a brainwave match with my own patterns for me to detect it without physical contact.
I jerk my head toward Vick, focusing on her to defuse the violent emotional onslaught while I get my mental shields in order. She meets my gaze with her impassive one, eyebrows rising just a tad in a mix of confusion and concern.
Behind her, Cate adjusts her standing position to face away from us, giving us some minor semblance of privacy.
Vick’s hand lands on my shoulder. She leans toward my ear, her warm breath tickling my neck. My muscles tense. It takes a concentrated effort not to recoil from her touch, so much did the brief contact with that other mind throw me off-balance. Through our connection, my senses tell me Vick’s calm and composed, though worried about me. I read it all in the shifting colors surrounding her. The rage and desire to do harm I sensed moments before fade into the background, then vanish.
She must pick up my tension through our bond because her lips shift into a frown. “You all right?” she asks.
I shake myself, struggling for focus. I peer into corners, then around and behind us at the rest of the crowded cavern, but I can’t trace the specific source of what I felt, not with so many other distractions and my mental walls back in place.
On top of everything else so horribly wrong with this scenario, somewhere in this repurposed mining facility there’s a mind fixated on what I can only describe as psychotic, vicious action.
It’s terrifying. But it’s not our assignment. And Vick doesn’t need to be worrying about unrelated problems when she’s in the middle of a delicate mission. When we take this operation down, this new problem will hopefully be eliminated right along with it.
I force a wavering smile. “There’s a lot of emotion in here. It’s a little overwhelming even with all the shield practice I’ve been doing these last few months.” It’s true. Undercover Ops has specialists on retainer for everything, including empath experts who’ve been working with me, preparing me for something like this. I’ve learned as much in my field as Vick and the guys have learned in theirs.
It still isn’t enough.
Her hand tightens in what is meant to be a comforting squeeze, though it’s all I can do to not tense further. “I can send you on an errand if you need a breather,” she says. “Lyle will be here.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ve got it now.”
She gives me a slow, unconvinced nod. “Okay.”
Shields or not, her trust, support, and faith in my abilities flows through our bond. It would be the perfect response if it didn’t also bring a stream of suppressed desire along with it. Heat pools in my core, at odds with the chill I’m fighting off. The result is a violent shiver that runs all the way down my spine to my toes.
It’s timed perfectly with a cry of release from one of the women on the stage, followed by a roar of applause and cheers from the assembled buyers.
Oh, it’s going to be a long night.