Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63082 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63082 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“Plan A is getting everyone out and shutting this organization down as quickly as possible. Our timeline should be two weeks—max. Get in, get the job done, get out without getting dead,” Logan said.
“But we need contingencies for every scenario,” Hunter insisted.
“You mean, if we have to wait this out until Haisley gets pregnant?” Even the thought made Nash’s gut twist. “That could be months…”
“I’ve done long undercover,” Kane said quietly. “The key is never breaking character. Not even alone.”
“He’s right, but let’s not borrow trouble,” Logan insisted. “If the worst happens, we’ll regroup and deal. We’ll need to get in and see precisely what we’re dealing with before we can draft alternate plans.”
“What about the masquerade? And the ‘claiming ceremony’?”
“Play your part,” Hunter advised. “Show enough dominance to be believable. Do what you can to protect yourselves. But if you break cover, they’ll kill you both.”
Nash nodded, fighting nausea at what they’d have to do. Dominating Haisley wasn’t the issue. She’d submit to him. But exposing her, degrading her in front of others...
He didn’t see a choice.
“There’s more.” Logan stepped forward. “A fed contact who’s been trying to get dirt on this group warned me these parties turn into sex shows. Orgies. They all but force participation.”
“And record everything, no doubt,” Kane added quietly.
“Assume you’re being watched twenty-four seven. Cameras and microphones in every room. Even the grounds will most likely be monitored to some degree. Just keep your guard up, utilize your communications tech judiciously, and watch your six.”
“The microcameras and recording devices the Santiago brothers supply you should document everything,” Logan said. “When we take them down, we’ll have irrefutable proof of every crime.”
“When can I get Kaylee out?” Ethan demanded.
“As soon as you’ve completed the claiming ritual.”
He blanched. “She’s a goddamn virgin. Her innocence…”
Logan sent him a regretful glance, one mirrored on his brothers’ faces. “But better debauched than dead.”
Garrison closed his eyes and swore again.
The room fell silent as the full weight of their situation settled in. Matt exchanged a worried glance with Trees as Nash’s hands turned unsteady again.
“We’ll get it done,” Trees finally said. “But prepare yourself to potentially play a long game.”
Nash nodded tightly. “Just make sure our covers hold. I’ll convince Haisley to play along. But I’m not leaving that island without her.”
“And if she gets pregnant?” Trees asked softly.
The question felt like a punch in the face. Nash forced down memories of his past reluctance to have kids and the mystery of her previous pregnancy. “We’ll deal with that if we have to. Getting her out safely comes first. Walk me through the cover details again. All of it. I can’t afford a single mistake.”
Because Haisley’s life depended on his performance. On every decision, on every gesture, on every word that came out of his mouth.
Hunter grilled him, Ethan, and Kane until they were perfect, backward and forward.
“You leave at dawn,” Hunter said finally. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, you start playing your parts.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Sunlight sparkled off the Caribbean water beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, mocking Haisley with its beauty. She paced the gilded cage, fingers trailing over chrome accents and plush gray fabrics that probably cost more than her yearly salary. Everything gleamed—polished mirrors, marble surfaces, crystal light fixtures.
Beautiful. Expensive. Utterly impossible to use as a weapon.
She’d spent days examining every inch of this suite. The windows were hurricane-proof, reinforced with steel mesh she could see glinting between the layers. The elegant metal fixtures were welded in place. Even the books and movies provided felt like a taunt—erotic tales full of sex, as if preparing her for tonight’s “claiming.”
The gauzy excuse for a dress hanging in her closet made her stomach turn.
Her only human contact for days had been silent guards with her meals and the cold-eyed doctor force-feeding her vitamins. She’d swallowed them, figuring they wouldn’t risk damaging their ten-million-dollar “investment.”
The door opened. A guard filled the frame. “Spa time.”
“What kind of treatments?” Her voice cracked from disuse.
He didn’t answer, just grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hallway. Down they went, deeper into the compound’s bowels, past security checkpoints with retinal scanners and reinforced doors, until they reached a space that could have been any high-end spa.
Except for the screaming.
The open floor plan revealed women being “prepared” for tonight. Scissors snipped. Hair dryers whirred. The sharp scent of chemicals burned her nose—bleach, hair dye, wax. Some women sat quietly as stylists worked, their eyes dead. Others were stripped and waxed raw, their skin angry red. In one corner, a woman thrashed against restraints while another woman approached with a piercing needle and lifted a towel to reveal her bare breasts.
“No! Please. Don’t—” Her pleas cut off in a shriek that echoed off the marble floors.
“Master Brady is gifting her with a set of weighted nipple rings,” one worker commented to another. “He does love his jewelry.”