Page 8 of Drowning in Darkness

Graydon’s attention focuses on us instead of the horror happening around the room. He studies the way I undo my belt, my thumb grazing the buckle and pressing harder than necessary.

I move with unhurried steps and snake my hand up her dress to grasp her bare hip. Thirty seconds stretch. I keep the count going as she stiffens beneath me. My hand wraps around her long hair, and I drag her head up so she has a clear view of every single person in the room, victims and scum alike.

Owen raises his whip once more. One day soon he will suffer worse than his victims. But I have to pretend to be caught in the act because no matter what the FBI finds tonight, most of these men will worm their way out of the crimes laid at their feet.

I kick her feet apart, drawing the attention of a few of the men in the room. I lean over her, covering her back with my chest and putting my lips against her ear. “Easy, Willa,” I utter, reminding her who she is, so she doesn’t freak out.

Just a little longer. Come on, Camryn. Owen drops the whip and snatches a violet wand from the table of tools. He doesn’t just get off on the pain; it’s the theatre of doing this in a room saturated with the desire of men and the despair of women.

I wonder how quickly he would break if the tables were turned.

The moment the electric touches the girl’s wound, the double doors at the opposite end of the room burst open and a flood of agents led by Camryn fills the room, shouting their presence to ensure no man here misses that they are indeed fucked.

Willa’s hand drops under the chair and releases the pistol stored there.

“Seven o’clock. The one with the two girls on the floor,” I murmur.

“Got him,” she whispers.

Time stretches as the agents spread out, but Owen stays true to my prediction and grabs a knife in a split-second decision.

Damn, I hate being right.

Willa doesn’t hesitate. The shot rings out and slams into his shoulder. The woman has a damn good aim. He’s wounded, but nothing medical attention can’t solve.

“Fuck,” Graydon snaps as he stands and glowers at Willa.

“Sit the fuck down,” she snarls as she backs away and puts me in her view. “You too, James.”

I do as she asks, playing the part of an unhurried and amused cult leader. I cast my eyes over the room as I take my seat, snatch my glass and take a big gulp of the amber nectar.

“Say nothing,” I mutter to Graydon as he also sits. “They have fuck all on you so long as you stay quiet.”

I take a quick count of the girls gathered in the room while Camryn works her way through the arrests. Fifteen, not sixteen. My stomach drops.

I count again, slower this time, forcing myself to focus despite the chaos unfolding around me. Agents bark orders. Men who have spent their lives believing themselves untouchable suddenly discover handcuffs don’t care about status. Women huddle together in various states of fear and confusion.

Fifteen. Again. One is missing.

The alcohol turns sour in my stomach.

I catch Camryn’s eye across the room and tap my finger once against the side of my glass. Her gaze sharpens at the silent communication, knowing something’s wrong but not what.

She strides toward me with purpose, her shoulders squared and her expression carved from stone. “James Austin, I’m arresting you on suspicion of human trafficking, kidnapping, rape, and murder.”

A few heads turn, and I force a smile onto my face because James Austin would smile.

“Oof. That’s quite a list, Miss Sinclair. Haven’t we done this dance already? All you have is a room of consenting adults caught in consensual debaucherous acts that all enjoy. I don’t see any bodies in the shadows.” I look around with a taunting lift of my brow.

“Agent Sinclair.” Her tone could freeze fire.

Normally I would push harder, play my role until she threatened to shoot me herself, but all I can think about is the missing girl. Where the fuck are you?

I swirl the amber liquid around. “You seem a little uptight, Agent Sinclair. Maybe you would benefit from a night with us. Let loose. Let me take all that uptight righteous energy and show you how a real man treats a woman like yourself.”

“Dream on,” Camryn mutters, pulling a set of restraints free from her waist.

The lies are practiced, but it still twists my stomach. Hurry, I implore her. Each passing minute that the girl is missing is another inch closer to us finding her dead.