25. LYLA #2
If Delgado planned to torture me, why clean me up? Why dress me as though I were going onstage?
The housekeeper pulled a pair of scissors from her apron. “Clothes off. Now.”
I hesitated.
She didn’t.
Taking one quick step forward, she grabbed the collar of my shirt and sliced through the shoulder seam. She stepped to the other side, and a couple of snips later, my top fell to the floor. My arms instinctively rose to cover my chest, but she slapped them down.
“Shorts too.”
I gaped at her incredulously, but her face didn’t change.
“Do it, or I will.”
My fingers fumbled with the waistband. Clenching my teeth, I peeled the shorts off slowly, the air cool against my skin. Then I stood there, completely naked, arms locked tight at my sides.
The younger woman kept her gaze averted, focusing on the makeup case sitting on the dresser. The housekeeper pointed to the stool in front of the mirror.
“Sit.”
I crossed the room and did as instructed. God, this was so embarrassing, being naked in front of these strange women.
No towel. No robe. Nothing.
Just exposed skin and a drill sergeant ordering me about.
The housekeeper stood behind me, clutching the curling iron like a weapon.
She plugged it in, and she and the other woman opened their cases, laying out their tools with methodical precision before descending on me.
The housekeeper curled my hair into tight, smooth spirals, yanking and twisting as if I were a mannequin.
Heat from the wand seared through the strands, though she never once burned my skin.
The younger one moved in from the side and got to work on my face. Foundation, powder, liner. Her hands were light and quick. She painted my lips a deep, blood-red shade, then swept eyeliner across my eyelids, dragging the brush out to form sharp wings.
I watched myself disappear in the mirror.
With every curl, every swipe of mascara, every dab of lip gloss, I became a different person.
All the while, I sat naked and silent, my skin covered in goose bumps. This was meant to be humiliating, and it was.
No one acknowledged the fact that I sat there like livestock being groomed for display.
Because that’s what I was now.
Not a girl. Not a performer.
Just property.
I barely recognized myself in the mirror when they were done.
The costume came next—some dark metallic, barely-there fabric stretched over my hips and breasts. The top dug into my ribs. The bottom rode high and tight. There was a sheer skirt. No shoes. No jewelry. No dignity.
“You’ll be collected in five,” the housekeeper said. “Stand by the door.”
They left without another word, their footsteps echoing down the polished hall until I was alone with my reflection. A stranger stared back at me—painted, hollow-eyed, dressed for someone else’s fantasy.
The door opened precisely five minutes later. One of Delgado’s men crossed the threshold, a block of muscle and menace. He didn’t bother speaking, just clamped a calloused hand around my arm and hauled me into the hallway.
The place was a Spanish villa masquerading as a home, all cream stucco walls and carved wooden arches.
The light of gilded sconces glowed against expensive tile floors.
But I barely had time to register the details.
My handler’s pace was relentless as he dragged me through a long hallway and to a sweeping staircase.
We descended quickly, and before I could even get a glimpse of the lower level, we were out the heavy front doors and heading into the night.
The sudden bite of cold made me shudder, prickling my skin. He yanked me down the stone steps, my bare feet scraping over the cold surface.
A waiting SUV loomed at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the floodlights of the front of the house.
The man shoved me forward. A strip of fabric was placed over my eyes—no suffocating bag this time, just a blindfold that made my world go black.
My stomach knotted nervously as I was pushed into the back seat.
The leather was cold against my thighs. The door slammed shut, and the engine growled to life.
The drive blurred into a series of turns and stops, the winding road making my stomach worse with every sway. Without sight, every bump and curve amplified my unease until my nerves clenched like a fist in my gut. The only reason I didn’t throw up was because I hadn’t eaten since the burger place.
Finally, the vehicle slowed. There were men speaking outside. Suddenly the door opened, and a hand fisted around my arm again.
“Out.”
The air smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke. The blindfold was jerked off. Once my vision cleared, I knew exactly where I was—The Sacrifice.
We didn’t go through the front entrance; instead, I was taken around the back, hauled up the steps, through the door, down the hallway, and then shoved into the back of the main stage.
No dressing room. No chance to see the other girls. Nothing.
My aerial pole was handed to me.
Carlos stood behind the curtain, arms folded, sneering at me.
He slapped my ass, jolting me forward.
“Time to earn your keep, little star,” he said, and then he pushed me out onto the stage.
The spotlight hit me in the chest like a punch.
The club was packed, but this wasn’t the typical crowd. No shouting. No whistles.
All the men in the audience wore high-end suits and watches worth more than my life savings. They sat in leather chairs. There was a velvet rope between the stage and the front tables.
The place smelled like money and smoke, with a not-so-subtle hint of anticipation.
I climbed the pole because I had no choice.
My body was stiff, my muscles cold. I’d been allowed no time for a warm-up. My limbs protested as I pushed through the climb. I locked my thighs high on the pole and spun slowly as the music began to play.
This had to be good.
Beautiful.
Erotic.
If I had any hope—any chance of getting out of here alive—I had to make Delgado forget he was angry. I had to perform.
I spun and dropped, letting my body fall into the poses they liked—back arched, legs split. Perspiration shimmered over my skin, both from the heat of the lights and my nerves.
I made the mistake of looking out across the audience.
My eyes found Delgado immediately.
He stood on the center balcony, arms crossed, guards flanking him. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Just watched.
I dropped into an inverted straddle, flipped, and climbed. My legs burned.
And then—the rig shifted.
My pole began to move.
I remained calm. This wasn’t unheard of. Carlos had done this before, rotating me slowly across the stage, but even still, this hadn’t been rehearsed. Something in my gut twisted.
The pole drifted forward, out over the audience.
Low—within arm’s reach.
Then a voice came over the speakers—deep, loud, lecherous.
“Gentlemen. You’ve had a taste. Now let’s begin the bidding.”
My stomach dropped.
“No!” I screamed.
The pole lowered even more.
I gripped it tighter, locking my legs into place, sweat breaking out across my back.
The men below stood from their chairs. Some raised drinks. Others slipped out their phones.
A few reached up.
Hands touched my ankles. Palms slid across my calves.
I kicked, twisted, tried to climb—but the rig lowered again.
A hand grabbed my thigh.
Fingers clawed. One tore my costume.
Another hand yanked my bottoms down and off.
I screamed.
No one listened.
Now I was bare from the waist down! Exposed. I clung to the top of the pole, desperately trying to hold myself up as hands reached for me again.
They laughed.
They barked in languages I didn’t understand.
Another round of grabs. One man scratched deep into the soft flesh of my inner thigh, and blood welled instantly.
I kicked him in the chin. The crowd roared.
Carlos was controlling the rig; I could see him behind the curtain with his hands on the lever.
He raised me up, shifted me to the side, and dropped me again, just low enough for the men to grope me.
I fought harder. Twisting. I couldn’t think. I screamed incoherently for them to stop touching me.
Carlos yanked the rig up—then let it fall again.
Each time it was worse.
Each time, there were more hands on me—more shouting.
I wasn’t performing anymore.
I was bait.
No, I was a product .
And somewhere, Delgado was watching it all, measuring every bid, hearing every one of my screams, seeing every drop of blood.
And I knew.
I wasn’t leaving this stage until someone bought me.
After what felt like forever, Carlos swung the pole back over the stage, suspending me high above the floor as the bidding continued at a frantic pace.
When I glanced over at him, he sneered—lips curled, eyes gleaming with satisfaction—and gave me a smug little nod, like I was getting exactly what I deserved.
Cold, smug, sadistic bastard!
My costume hung in tatters, and my voice was raw from screaming, so I remained silent, holding on for dear life.
I was barely aware now of the voice echoing through the club’s speakers. I caught something about a final bid. My arms trembled. My grip slipped. My thigh bled as I shook.
Then everything exploded.
Gunfire cracked like a lightning storm as bodies began to explode beneath me.
A man in the front row lurched backward, blood fountaining from his throat. Another staggered and collapsed with a hole where his eye used to be.
Screams erupted. Tables were overturned. Crystal shattered. Men in suits trampled each other, shoving their way toward the exits. Another gunshot took out the speaker system.
The music died.
And then I saw them.
Black-clad men swarmed through the club with weapons drawn. They moved fast—silent and deadly.
One of Delgado’s soldiers ran toward the stage and got dropped with two bullets to the chest. Another tried to pull a pistol from under his jacket, only to get his neck sliced open. He fell face-first onto the floor, twitching.
I clung to the pole, high above it all. Frozen.
One of the stagehands ran toward the men with a chair raised over his head.
That was when I saw him…my stalker!
My breath stopped.
He had come.
He ended the stagehand with a bullet to the face just before he could drop the chair on his head.
Without slowing down, he moved through the chaos. He was a man on a mission—precision in his movements and murder in his eyes. Blood splattered across his side. He didn’t even flinch.
One of the men flanking him raised a gun and dropped a guard with two clean shots. Another of his team barked orders and laid down cover fire as the rest of them advanced up to the stage.
More men in tactical gear poured in from the front—disciplined, brutal, and deadly. Whoever these men were, they weren’t here to rescue anyone. They were here to end everyone in the place.
I scanned the stage for Carlos. He was still at the rig control.
Mr. Stalker saw him too, and he didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He just moved—like a shadow between bodies, sliding behind the curtain.
Carlos glanced up at me, and the rig started moving.
I caught a flash of steel as my stalker came up from behind and hooked his arm around Carlos’s neck. The blade in his other hand glinted in the light. Then he dragged it cleanly and slowly across Carlos’s neck, from ear to ear.
Blood poured.
Carlos’s knees buckled. His body crumpled to the floor, twitching, lifeless.
My stalker wiped the blade on his pants and sheathed it on his hip.
He looked up at me—calm, cool, and collected—then grabbed the lever and began maneuvering the rig. Slowly, he drew me toward him.
I stayed frozen, still clutching the pole, unsure if I was about to be saved or butchered along with the rest.
Then there was a flash.
A shot rang out.
He jumped.
I screamed.
He clutched his side and shook his head, looking somewhat annoyed, as if he’d been stung by a bee.
Another man rushed him from the shadows. He spun, grabbed the attacker’s wrist mid-swing, and twisted, dropping his knee hard. The man howled as his elbow snapped in the wrong direction. Bone tore through skin, and blood sprayed across the wall.
My stalker shoved him away and looked back at me.
“Lyla!” he roared. “Let go! I’ve got you.”
But I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know if I could trust him. Not after what I’d just been through, not after everything he’d done.
But staying in this nightmare would definitely lead to something worse.
Just then, a bullet ricocheted off the pole above my hand.
I whipped my head around.
Delgado.
He stood on the other side of the stage, pistol raised, face stone cold.
I let go.
My body fell. Air rushed past.
And then—arms.
My savior caught me.
His arms locked tight around my back and legs. My head slammed into his shoulder.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He held me like he meant to kill anyone who tried to take me again.
Then he shouted—
“Burn it to the fucking ground!”
Everything stopped.
Then everything moved.
All the men clad in black obeyed.
The Sacrifice was about to become ash.