Chapter 30
Istare at the red light, the blue satin lingerie clinging to my skin.
Travis positions himself behind me, his breath moist on my neck. His fingers dig into my hips as he shifts me into the frame, and my stomach knots, nausea rising.
“Perfect,” Travis whispers, the word slithering into my ear. “They’ll love this.”
The ring light burns white spots into my vision, bleaching the colors from the room until everything feels unreal. My bare feet find the thin rug he laid down to mimic my apartment floor. The air reeks of sweat and dust, and every breath becomes a fight to keep from gagging.
“Smile.” Travis’s grip tightens when I remain frozen. “You know how to perform, Elliot. Do it now.”
My lips stretch in a tight imitation of pleasure, muscles locked so tight they tremble. The camera lens stares back, unblinking, capturing my debasement for whoever sits on the other side of this feed.
Buyers. Traffickers. People who view me as merchandise.
Travis slides his free hand up my stomach, fingers cold on my skin as they slip beneath the tank top. “That’s it. Show them what they’re bidding on.”
His touch repulses me, each point of contact leaving trails of disgust across my flesh. He shoves the tank higher, exposing my chest to the chill air. My body betrays me with a shiver, and Travis interprets it as excitement.
“See how responsive he is?” He speaks to the camera now, a salesman showcasing his wares. The gun remains pressed to my side, hidden from the frame. “Premium grade Omega. Young, healthy, already proven fertile with regular Heats.”
The words slice through me. This isn’t just an assault, it’s an auction. My pulse races as the full horror sinks in. With Saint tied up and the ear comm gone, I could disappear into a trafficking network tonight, sold to the highest bidder while the Rockfords search in vain.
“Turn,” Travis commands, rotating me by the shoulders to display me from another angle.
I comply, mind racing beneath the mask of submission. The desk lamp sits within reach, its base heavy metal, but Travis remains too close, and the gun never wavers from my side.
“Full range of services,” he continues, licking his lips. “Trained in pleasing clients. Excellent online following. Minimal physical correction needed. You could put him to work right away to bring in a revenue stream.”
My throat constricts around bile as Travis trails fingers down my spine, coming to rest at the waistband of the satin shorts. The pressure of his hand threatens to tug them down, to expose more of me to the hungry lens.
“Come on, Elliot, why are you so stiff?” Travis uses a remote in his free hand to zoom the camera closer. “Show them how much you want this.”
The camera inches forward on its motorized track, lens adjusting with a soft whir. My breath comes in shallow gasps as Travis’s fingers hook into my waistband. One tug, and what little protection the thin fabric offers will be gone.
I stare at the tripod head I loosened earlier, but it’s taking longer to unbalance than I thought it would. If I can make the floor vibrate...
Travis’s hand slides lower, beneath the waistband, to grope me. “Perfect specimen,” he tells the camera. “Responsive to touch, compliant under Command.”
I shift my weight, a small movement disguised as discomfort. The board beneath the throw rug creaks, and the camera wobbles, its image blurring for the viewers.
Not enough.
“Stand still,” Travis hisses, removing his hand to grip my hip. “Don’t ruin the shot.”
“Sorry,” I whisper, playing up my fear to mask my intention. “I’m nervous.”
His posture softens. “You don’t need to be nervous, Elliot. You’re a natural performer. Show them what you showed me all those nights.”
His confidence screams delusional. He really believes we had private shows instead of just being one of hundreds in my feed.
I rock forward, onto the balls of my feet, then back to my heels. The floor vibrates under the subtle movement, and the camera’s image wobbles more noticeably this time.
Travis curses, attention diverted to the equipment. “What the hell?”
He steps away, just enough to check the feed on his laptop. His eyes narrow at the screen. “Why is the image is shaking?”
I hold my position, muscles coiled. Not yet.
“Cheap piece of crap,” Travis mutters, setting the gun down on the edge of the desk to free both hands for the camera.
As he turns his back to me, fingers working the tripod, my heart stutters in my chest. This is my chance.
The camera shifts again as Travis adjusts it, the movement more prominent as he jiggles the connections. “Hold on,” he tells our viewers. “Technical issue. We’ll resume in a minute.”
His back remains to me as he leans in to examine the tripod head, his attention on figuring out the problem. The gun lies on the desk, within reach but too far for a safe grab. The lamp, however...
My hand twitches at my side. One movement. That’s all I need. One surge of courage to seize this moment before it vanishes.
“There’s nothing wrong with this,” Travis grumbles, frustration evident as he checks each connection. He shakes the tripod, and the camera wobbles again. “What the hell is causing this?”
Now or never.
I inhale, gathering my courage. Saint would fight. Sebastian would fight. And so will I.
Travis curses again, his shoulders hunched forward as he leans in, blocking the lens with his body as he examines the connection point.
I lunge across the space between us, fingers closing around the heavy base of the desk lamp. The metal feels cold and solid in my palm, and before my brain can process what my body has decided, I swing with every ounce of strength born of fear.
The lamp connects with the back of Travis’s skull with a sickening crack, and time slows as his knees buckle.
Travis crumples forward with a surprised grunt, his body folding at the waist as he catches himself on the edge of the desk. Blood blooms along his hairline, trickling down his temple in a thin crimson line.
His expression twists with shock, then fury, pupils dilating as he turns toward me. “You little—”
I don’t give him time to finish. The lamp comes down again, my arms vibrating with the impact as metal strikes bone. This time, Travis drops to one knee, a guttural sound escaping his throat. The metallic tang of blood fills the air, mingling with the scent of my sweat and fear.
My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips, each pulse threatening to loosen my grip on the lamp. The blue satin of the lingerie clings to my skin, wet with perspiration, a reminder of what might still happen if I hesitate.
Travis shakes his head, blood spattering onto the floor. His hand fumbles for the gun on the desk, fingers inching toward the grip.
“No!” The word tears from my throat as I swing a third time.
The lamp slips in my sweat-slick palms, the angle wrong. It glances off his shoulder instead of his head, the force of the blow sending the gun clattering to the floor beneath the desk. The sound of metal skidding across the hollow stage echoes through the warehouse.
Travis lunges toward me, his face a mask of primal fury. Blood streams down one side, painting half his features in wet crimson. His hands find my waist, fingers digging into flesh with bruising force as he tackles me backward.
My spine slams into the edge of the bed, breath exploding from my lungs in a painful rush. Stars burst behind my eyelids as my head snaps back, skull connecting with the metal frame. The lamp falls from my numb fingers, hitting the floor with a hollow clang.
The ring light sways, throwing dizzying shadows across the walls. The rug bunches beneath my heels as I struggle to plant my feet.
“You think you can fight me?” Travis snarls, his weight crushing me against the bed, his breath hot on my face. “After everything I’ve done for you?”
My vision blurs, reality smearing at the edges. One of his hands wraps around my throat, squeezing until spots dance in my vision. The pressure builds, blood pounding in my ears as my airway constricts.
“I’m gonna fix you,” he promises, dropping into a whisper. “Break you proper before delivery.”
Panic surges through me, a chemical flood that clears my vision and sharpens my focus. With all my force, I drive my knee up between his legs. The impact isn’t perfect, but it’s enough to loosen his grip.
Air rushes back into my lungs, and I gasp as I twist beneath him, leveraging my hip to throw him off-balance. We topple sideways, bodies tangled together as we hit the floor.
The rough boards of the stage scrape my exposed skin, the lingerie offering no protection, and pain flares along my shoulder and hip, hot and immediate. Travis rolls with me, his greater weight threatening to pin me beneath him again.
The ring light crashes beside us, flickering out, and the edge of the desk is inches from my face as I twist, avoiding another blow.
His hands grasp for purchase, catching in the fabric of the tank top and tearing it. The sound of ripping satin fills me with fresh terror. If he regains control now, after I’ve fought back, whatever he had originally planned will become infinitely worse.
My palm slides across the floor, searching for the lamp, the gun, anything that might save me. Instead, my fingers tangle in a power cable for the ring light, now yanked free from the socket.
Travis’s knee digs into my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs a second time. His hand returns to my throat, thumb digging in to my windpipe. My vision tunnels, darkness creeping inward from the edges.
The cord wraps around my fingers, solid and real.
A lifeline.
With strength born of desperation, I twist my body beneath him, creating enough space to loop the cord around his neck. The black rubber slides across his sweat-slick skin as I cross the ends behind his head.
The moment of realization hits Travis, his fingers loosening at my throat as he lunges for the cord.
Too late.
I pull with everything I have, arms shaking with effort. The cord bites into his neck, and his mouth opens in a silent gasp. His weight shifts as he tries to break free, giving me the leverage to roll us again.
Now I straddle him, thighs clamping around his torso as I maintain pressure on the cord. His face darkens, blood vessels bursting beneath the skin, turning his ordinary features into a grotesque mask.
“This is for Saint,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “And for every Omega you’ve stalked and planned to sell.”
Travis bucks beneath me, body convulsing as he fights for air. His fists pound into my sides, each blow weaker than the last. My shoulder slams into the partition wall, the impact rattling my teeth, but I maintain my grip.
The power cord cuts into my palms, burning as it slides through my skin. Blood slicks my grip, and I can’t tell whose it is.
“Be a good boy,” I snarl as I readjust my grip and keep pulling.
Time stretches, each second lasting hours as Travis thrashes. Every sound echoes off the partition walls, the strangled gasps, the scrape of his boots, the rasp of the cord. His eyes bulge, bloodshot and desperate. His legs kick, heels drumming on the stage in a frantic rhythm that gradually slows.
Travis’s struggles weaken, his blows losing aim and force. His head lolls back, lids flickering.
The silence after is worse than the noise.
My breath comes in ragged bursts as I continue to hold on, arms burning with fatigue, until his body goes limp beneath me.
Only then do I release the cord, fingers cramping as they uncurl from their death grip.