Ash Storm (Chimera Force Book 2), page 5
“It’s okay, Chloe,” she said patiently, raising herself to a standing position and helping her friend up. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to look at you.”
At least none of the women in the room—she wasn’t about to scare Chloe by talking to her about whoever might be looking behind the camera.
As Reka had expected, none of the women in the room even looked in their direction. Even so, by the time she was done, Chloe’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. And Reka wanted to shout at her friend, because the only ones who should feel ashamed were the animals who were keeping them here.
Back in her corner, Chloe began openly sobbing.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Reka asked, pulling her arms around her friend’s too-thin shoulders.
“There was … there was no toilet paper,” Chloe whispered.
Reka knew better than to laugh. “When we get out of here, Chloe, I’ll have a truckload of toilet paper delivered to your doorstep, okay?”
Her reward was a small smile. For an instant, the old Chloe was back.
The moment was cut short by a rattling sound. Junior and another man appeared, rapping a cattle prod against the bars of the cell. They were followed by two very old women dressed in loose pants and long-sleeved tunics. Each woman dragged a suitcase behind her.
It quickly dawned on Reka that she and Chloe were the only ones still sitting. The other fourteen women had quickly moved to the far wall, where they stood at attention.
Reka pulled Chloe up, joining the others.
“What’s going on?” she asked the woman closest to her.
“Seamstresses,” a slim woman with golden skin and striking light gray eyes whispered. Reka nodded in gratitude.
“Ladies,” the man standing next to Junior said. “Take off your clothes.”
No
God, no.
Reka’s breaths came in sharp, sudden pants. Beside her, Chloe wavered, as if she’d fall to the ground at any moment.
The other women didn’t hesitate, their movements matter-of-fact, as if any urge to fight back had been beaten out of them long before.
“Do as they say,” her neighbor whispered.
Reka looked beside her. Half of the women were completely naked already, standing with their backs very straight, eyes forward, hands by their sides. Like soldiers. Several were still hopping on one foot then another as they attempted to follow directions.
She and Chloe were the only ones who hadn’t yet moved.
“Take them off, Chloe,” she said. She pulled her own sweater and T-shirt over her head in one go, then pulled her leggings down. She didn’t have to take off her shoes, since she was already barefoot. When she’d woken up in the first cell, her shoes had been nowhere to be found.
Her clothes—even her bra—felt loose.
You’ve lost a lot of weight.
She looked over at Chloe, whose hip bones and ribs jutted out almost painfully.
She willed herself to take off her bra and her panties and stood still, barely able to stop herself from placing her hands in front of her. Reka had always been proud of her strong, athletic body. She’d never been shy about getting changed in front of others, or naked with her partners. But today, for the first time, her forced nakedness made her feel vulnerable.
Alarms rang in her head.
It’s what they want.
They want you to feel weak.
Somehow, just acknowledging it gave her back some of her strength. She straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back.
The two men leered at them. Junior even licked his lips a couple of times, as if anticipating a taste.
“Stand still,” the first man said, and it seemed to Reka that he was speaking directly to her. “If anyone moves, there will be no dinner for anyone tonight.”
His words drew no reaction from the women, but Reka could feel the tension in the room ratchet up a notch. She pressed her shoulder harder against Chloe, willing her to stay in place.
The cold water hit her before she had a chance to say anything. Junior wielded the high-pressure hose like a pro, striking each of the women in turn. He kept things interesting by hitting up and down the line randomly. When it reached her, the water slammed painfully against her breasts. Reka clamped her lips closed. Several women cried out. Apparently, that was allowed. But nobody moved an inch.
The two old women walked through the line, a bar of soap in each hand, soaping the women up quickly. Reka felt the woman’s hands against her breasts, her belly, on the underside of her arms, even between her legs.
By the time she found her voice to complain, the woman had moved on to do the same to Chloe, and then on to the next woman.
“Now turn around,” Junior said. The cold water hit her back and buttocks next, dripping down her legs to pool at her feet.
One of the women moved back down the line, using a single towel to dry off all sixteen women. By the time Reka’s turn came, the towel was wet and rough, and chafed at her skin. Still, Reka forced herself to stay still.
From beyond the bars of the cell, Junior touched himself lasciviously through his pants. Reka looked quickly away.
“He is not allowed to touch us,” her gray-eyed friend said quietly, enunciating her words very carefully.
Okay. So Junior had to stay outside the cell.
That was good.
The women then moved down the line again with a small bottle of oil.
The oil smelled of something sweet and flowery—it reminded Reka vaguely of the products they’d used at the hammam. It felt like that had happened years ago.
The old women dripped oil on each captive in turn. It went all over Reka, from her hair, all the way down her body.
“Rub,” the woman instructed.
Under the woman’s careful perusal, Reka rubbed the oil in, not wanting to be touched again by the woman. By the time she was done, she was slippery like an animal about to be roasted on a spit.
“There, too,” she said, pointing to Reka’s mound. Reka felt the color spread up her face. Aileen, Chloe, and she had treated themselves to a Brazilian waxing job just before the holidays, but Reka now wished she had the protection of the hair she’d removed.
Reka pulled some of the oil between her legs.
Suddenly, the woman pushed her finger inside Reka.
Reka cried out in pain and fear.
Moments later, the finger was removed.
The woman shook her head, then moved on to Chloe. Then to the next woman. Most of the time, she shook her head. Twice, however, she nodded, her lips stretching in a toothless grin.
And Reka finally understood what the old woman was doing.
She’s looking for virgins.
Finally, the women pulled white, gauzy dresses out of the suitcases they’d dragged in. Reka took the one handed to her. It looked like a wrap-around dress. She put it on, grateful at first to have anything to cover herself with. It was a few instants before she realized her mistake. The dress was made of a nearly translucent material, totally see-through around her breasts, with a slit on one side that opened up nearly to her waist the instant she moved.
It was worse than being naked.
It also left no doubt what their purpose here was.
The two women who’d been singled out as virgins were given a thick white armband to wear. All were left barefoot.
The women then collected all the leftover clothes at their feet, quickly stuffing everything into the now empty suitcases before turning around and leaving. It struck Reka that not once had they looked any of the captives in the eyes.
Tears rolled down Reka’s cheeks as her clothes disappeared. And though she knew the clothes didn’t matter, she felt like the women were taking away something important, something she’d never get back.
Feeling her strength ebb once more, she started to pray.
11
Ash
Afsan’s palace lived up to its name. Even the back entrance was sumptuous, with tall archways and graceful columns arranged in military formation.
There were three guards at that entrance. Ash noted they were all armed.
“Andrea Romano,” he said, laying on a thick Italian accent. “I’m here to fight.”
A smirk crossed the guard’s face as he checked his clipboard.
“Ah. The Roman Stallion.”
Damn you, Rogue.
As the man crossed his name off the list, Ash stretched his neck, hoping to see how many other fighters were here already. But the man was too quick putting the clipboard away.
“Leave your bag there,” the guard commanded.
“But my things—“ Ash complained, even though he’d expected something like this.
“Leave your bag there, or get out.”
“Okay, okay,” Ash said, stretching the vowels.
“Now, stand against the wall.”
“Really?” Ash smirked. Unamused, the guard slammed him against the wall before patting him down briskly.
No sense of humor.
He found the knife Ash had known they would find and took it, grumbling. It was a good knife, and Ash was sad to see it go.
“If you need it for the fight, you can get it back then,” the guard said, still looking pissed off.
Ash flashed him his best smile. “These are my best weapons,” he bragged, raising his fists.
Eventually, the youngest of the three guards led him across a courtyard and past several beautiful, manicured gardens. Leaving the main palace and the Bosphorous behind, they walked past something that looked like a greenhouse and eventually arrived at yet another courtyard, this time overlooking a smaller building.
“Those are the fighter’s quarters,” the guard said. “You’ll be assigned a room. For now …” he pointed to the courtyard, where a group of men were already gathering.
Most were training, or rather, showing off their training. One slim man wielded what looked like a freaking Samurai sword with ease. A thick-waisted boxer was pounding the living daylights out of a bag hanging from a metal stand.
“Your bag will be delivered to your room.”
“Thank you,” Ash said politely, turning to watch the guard leave. He felt the stares of several men on the back of his head.
Time to dance.
The more they feared him, the less he’d have to hurt them later.
Ash turned to look at the closest man, a ruddy-faced freckled fellow who didn’t look like he was a day over eighteen. “Hai un problema?” he growled.
In response, the boy spit on the ground—inches from Ash’s feet.
“Careful,” Ash said. “These are my good boots.”
“Feck you,” the boy said in a thick Irish accent. The fear hidden behind the boy’s cocky stare made Ash sick to his stomach.
Ash readied his fist, steeling himself against he was about to do. Just then, an enormous man came out of the building. He wore a traditional jubba in light gray and moved like he owned, if not the palace, then at least the fighting grounds.
Ash let his fist drop.
“I am the fight master,” he said. “You will address me as hocam while you are here.”
“Hocam?” Ash asked the man to his left.
“It means teacher,” the man said. He was a tall, stocky man in his mid-thirties.
“He’s going to teach us?” Ash asked, raising his eyebrow.
“I think it’s ironic,” the man replied. Unlike the boy, there was no fear in his eyes. This one had been around.
“Ah,” Ash said, nodding to himself.
“So. The rules,” the fight master continued. He stopped to look at each of the fighters in turn.
“You will fight only when I tell you to fight. Anybody who breaks this rule will be kicked out immediately.” He looked at the guards behind him, making it clear he had the manpower to enforce that rule.
“Tonight, you will drink and enjoy yourselves. Tomorrow, you will each fight three men. No weapons allowed. Only the four top fighters will be invited to spend a second night with us. The rest will each leave with one of these.” A collective gasp filled the courtyard as the man flashed a gold coin.
“I didn’t come here for a single coin,” Ash said, speaking loudly.
The man zeroed in on him, a cruel smile shaping his mouth. “Then you’d better be in top form, Romano. Yes, I know who you are. I know who each of you are. I have watched videos of your fights.”
I hope you enjoyed those fake fights Rogue put out.
“The day after tomorrow, the four champions will fight. The winner will leave with a million dollars—in cash.”
“That’s more like it,” Ash said loudly.
“And the others?” That was the Irish boy speaking. Once again, Ash felt a pang in his chest and steeled himself against it. The boy wasn’t his priority. Unlike Reka and Chloe, these men were all here voluntarily.
“Let’s just say the others … won’t need the million dollars.”
“That money is mine. You should all go home now, while you still have a chance,” said the thick-waisted boxer.
Did he sharpen his front teeth?
“Nei tuoi sogni,” Ash replied.
In your dreams.
“Only one man will see zafer,” the fight master said.
Ash looked left towards his Turkish neighbor, who’d become his unofficial translator.
“Victory,” he said helpfully.
There were wrinkles around his eyes Ash hadn’t noticed before. The man might be older than he looked.
“Ah.”
I’m going to have to learn Turkish.
“Now, you will all go shower ahead of the celebration.”
“Shower? Why do we need to shower?” somebody complained. Ash hid his smile. At least this would give him a chance to look around.
Reka
Reka was in a sleepy fog when Thick Mustache came back. By the time she was fully awake, she was already out of the cell and being dragged down the corridor.
Behind her, Chloe cried out. The man dragging her friend was new—tall and strong, and much lighter in coloring than Thick Mustache and the other men they’d seen until now.
Chloe kicked him in the shin and he cried out.
“You bitch,” he hissed, giving her a push that ended up with Chloe on her knees. Reka shivered, remembering the man with the English accent she’d heard through the window.
“Careful with the merchandise,” Thick Mustache laughed.
The Englishman pulled Chloe back up to a standing position.
“You going to behave, luv?”
Thick Mustache tightened his hold around Reka’s elbow painfully.
“Come on, we don’t want to keep him waiting.”
And then they were moving up the stairs. For once, Reka was glad for the man’s hold on her arm, not sure she would have made it. And it was so good to see the light again when they finally made it up the two sets of stairs to what had to be the main floor.
Reka blinked in surprise.
Am I dreaming?
The stairs led out into a sumptuous palace, the likes of which Reka had only seen in movies. The hallway they were in, wide enough for at least seven people walking side by side and decorated with beautiful marble sculptures, opened up into a series of enormous rooms. Reka glimpsed each of them as they walked by. One had heavy draperies in a royal shade of red. The next one was filled with paintings.
“What—“ She licked her dry lips and tried again. “Where—“
“Shut up,” the Englishman said.
Finally, they stopped next to a closed door. Thick Mustache knocked.
“Come in,” a deep, cultured voice replied.
Chloe and Reka were pushed inside a plus, elegant room. They stood, dumbstruck, staring at the heavy leather volumes lining the walls.
Reka had read somewhere you needed a thousand tomes to call a place a library. If so, this was a library many times over.
They could film the next Beauty and the Beast here.
A man stood from behind a heavy, ornate desk.
“Welcome to my home,” he said politely. “I am Ahmet Afsan.” His English was flawless, only a slight hitch in its cadence pointing to the fact that he wasn’t a native speaker.
Reka committed the name to memory.
Ahmet Afsan.
He waved them politely towards another area of the great room, with several armchairs and deep sofas.
As if we’re his guests.
The crazy fuck.
If she’d had anything in her stomach, Reka would have vomited on the plush rug under her feet.
As it was, she had to bite her tongue to keep the words from spilling out. As polite as he was acting, she didn’t get the feeling he’d take kindly to being referred to as a crazy fuck.
The man oozed power and wealth.
He wore a simple white shirt and linen pants, and no jewelry except for a thick gold and diamond watch on his left wrist. It wasn’t so much what he was wearing, though Reka had the feeling the soft leather slippers on his feet alone cost more than she made in a month. It was more how he was wearing it, and the way he stood, as if everything around them belonged to him.
His hair was the kind of black that didn’t come from nature, his short, carefully groomed beard a more natural salt and pepper color. He had eyes the color of thick caramel.
He pierced Reka with a hard, intense stare, not saying anything for the longest time. Reka straightened to her full five-seven height—pointless, since he was still half a head taller, but it made her feel better. She wished she wasn’t half-naked.
“You are both as beautiful as I was told,” he said. Reka didn’t miss the fact that he spent much longer looking at Chloe. And she wanted to stand in front of her friend, to protect her from that hard, lecherous stare, but her legs refused to move. It was all she could do to stay standing.
Eventually, the man—Ahmet—turned back to Thick Mustache.
“You have a good eye, Yusuf.”
Thick Mustache visibly swelled with pride, his already barrel-like width puffing out further.
“Thank you, efendim.” He looked like he was about to weep with happiness. “If I pleased you, I am glad.”
