Desire's Addiction Read online

  DESIRE’S ADDICTION

  MARI CARR

  LILA DUBOIS

  Copyright © 2022 by Mari Carr

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Suggested Reading Order

  About the Authors

  PROLOGUE

  Milo Moretti spoke in a low voice, head turned so none of the guards could see his mouth moving. He translated the auctioneer’s words, knowing the others would hear via the state-of-the-art comms hidden in their ears. The man outlined the “rules” for this particular sale, the last slave auction of the evening. Gabriella Torres—the woman they were here to rescue—was hauled onto the small stage.

  Milo had known how difficult this mission would be, but with the added conditions, their chances of extracting Gabriella from her kidnappers with no one getting hurt or killed were minimal at best.

  As a security officer for the Masters’ Admiralty, a secret society that had existed in Europe since the Black Plague, Milo had seen his fair share of disturbing, sick shit. He’d dealt with thieves, murderers, rapists, bombers, and even a goddamn sociopath who’d nearly lain waste to the organization he’d sworn to protect with his life.

  A red haze had hovered at the edges of his vision ever since they’d entered this elegant estate just outside of Madrid. No one looking at the property from the outside would ever suspect the horrors currently taking place within. He’d already witnessed two women dragged onstage, humiliated and physically abused before being sold, trafficked as sex slaves to the worst scum humanity had to offer.

  He was here translating the auction—which was taking place in Italian despite being in Spain—and pretending to be a bodyguard for Szabó Olivér. Szabó was the cover identity for Vicente Coval, who was here along with Emiliano Ortiz. The men were Gabriella’s husbands, and though Vicente was a dangerous man, if either of them broke character in response to seeing their wife abused, it would be up to Milo to try to get all of them out of here safely.

  “Hold, please,” the auctioneer, Rufino said, gesturing toward a door at the back of the room. “There is someone else I’d like to see this.”

  The door at the back opened, and the guard appeared with…another woman. There were only supposed to be three women auctioned off, so who was this?

  She was dressed like the first two victims had been, in a corset and short skirt, and there was a thick gag in her mouth.

  Another victim.

  A surprise fourth auction?

  The woman stumbled a little when pushed forward, but she regained her feet and straightened her shoulders. She seemed calm, which probably meant she was in shock.

  He didn’t have time to consider the puzzle of the fourth woman: his attention forced to pivot back to the trinity he was protecting, because Gabriella had recognized Vicente. If she accidentally let it slip that this was a rescue, they were in serious trouble. They’d had to turn over their weapons and phones at the door, and the auction team had armed guards near all the exits.

  Milo’s heart hurt for Gabriella, Vicente, and Emiliano as the men were forced to abuse their wife in order to keep up the pretense of being the kind of despicable men who would purchase a human being.

  Gabriella was a convincing victim, cursing, screaming, clawing, fighting them with everything she had. God only knew how much therapy she would need to recover from this. Given the stricken expression on Emiliano’s face, he might need a little time on the shrink’s couch as well. A politician, Emiliano had no experience with life-or-death missions such as these, unlike his husband, Vicente, who served as security minister for the Castile territory.

  Like Milo, Vicente was no stranger to the dark underbelly of society.

  Milo’s attention was split between Emiliano—who was the weak link as far as breaking cover—and the unknown woman. He didn’t like surprises. Surprises were a security risk.

  Even worse than surprises were mysteries. He couldn’t control a situation if he didn’t know exactly who the players were and what was going on.

  And she was a mystery.

  Who was she? Why was she here but not being auctioned off? Why had Rufino wanted her to see Gabriella’s sale and subsequent abuse at the hands of her “buyers”?

  The last question, at least, he could make an educated guess as to the answer. Rufino was using Gabriella’s auction and the aftermath as a threat or warning. That meant they wanted something from this woman or had trouble controlling her through normal tactics and had resorted to a visual demonstration.

  Time and again, his gaze kept slipping back to the beautiful dark-skinned woman being forced to watch Gabriella’s torment.

  Her dark eyes, glassy with tears, shimmered like polished obsidian. Her thick, long hair, the color of coal, hung straight down her back, though some had fallen forward, covering her right shoulder and a collarbone that was too pronounced on her frail frame. Given the way her bones seemed to stand out, he’d bet that she’d been starved to some degree. Milo had to swallow his anger as he took in every cut and bruise on her face and arms.

  His eyes returned to her face, and this time their gazes met. Held.

  She raised her chin, her shoulders squared.

  Good for you, Milo thought.

  Then she looked him up and down dismissively. Her expression—despite the gag that obstructed the lower half of her face—told him exactly what she thought of him. He was, in her eyes, absolute scum.

  Damn. Whoever she was, she had a core of cold-fired steel.

  Milo felt his brows rise because anyone who could pull off that look, and mean it, while literally helpless and being psychologically tortured, was a level of badass he respected.

  His attention was jerked back to the triad, who were in the middle of an emotionally messy moment that put them all at risk. He stepped in to help Vicente, covering for Emiliano.

  “Scream,” Milo muttered to Gabriella.

  A loud sob captured Milo’s attention, and once more, he looked across the room toward the bound woman. She was genuinely fighting against her bindings, seemingly determined to come to Gabriella’s rescue.

  Again, their gazes met, and twin expressions of rage and fear flickered across her features. His admiration for her grew, and Milo had to stifle a growl when the man holding her—whom they’d identified as Denis during their war council—slid his hand from her shoulder down to her breast, reaching beneath the black corset she wore.

  The woman’s eyes closed, her shoulders slumping as she was abused.

  No. Don’t let them break you.

  Milo shifted, his immediate gut reaction driving him to intervene. Mercifully, he regained control quickly, hoping no one had noticed that he’d broken character momentarily. He could have jeopardized the entire m
ission and gotten them all killed. He was better than this, always in command of his emotions.

  That ability fled as he watched the woman whimpering behind the gag when Denis pinched one of her nipples roughly.

  Anger erupted, his blood coursing through his veins like lava, everything inside him screaming to kill the man who dared to touch…her.

  She looked up, eyes luminous with tears, and their gazes met again. Milo raised his chin and straightened his shoulders.

  She blinked in surprise but then mimicked him, sitting up, chin raised, defiance radiating from her.

  Milo nodded, the barest motion of his head. A tiny acknowledgment of her apparently indomitable will.

  She kept her chin up, shoulders back, even as the men reached for her again.

  Milo didn’t even know her name, but in that moment, he was willing to risk the whole op to help her. Not save her. No, this woman could save herself, given the right backup. He knew, just by looking at her, that if he removed the bindings holding her, she wouldn’t collapse and cry. This woman was alert, aware, calculating. She would have already analyzed and found the route that offered her the best chance at escape.

  Time seemed to move at a snail’s pace as Vicente brought them to the denouement of this horrific play. Milo was certain no one in the room would question what they’d just seen. To the observers, including the woman, it looked like a horrible, brutal rape.

  He ran the possibilities, trying to come up with a tactically sound way to get not only Gabriella, Emiliano, and Vicente out of here alive but the woman too.

  There wasn’t one.

  They were going to walk out without her.

  He felt sick.

  Milo would find a way to rescue her, and Denis would suffer a hundred times over for every drop of pain she endured. He wouldn’t be quick about it. If it were up to him, Denis would suffer greatly before Milo ended him once and for all. And he’d let her give him suggestions for what to do. He wouldn’t let her actually commit the acts of violence because she didn’t need that on her soul. His, however, was already black. He would take on that darkness for her.

  When the grim pantomime was done, Rufino rose from his seat, walking closer to them. Milo grabbed Gabriella and pulled her upright from the table, as Emiliano handed her the torn silk gown and took charge of getting Gabriella to the door.

  This was prearranged. Milo would take up the rear in case they met any resistance.

  They were almost out when Gabriella turned back toward the room.

  “Talya,” she called to the bound woman, reaching out as if she intended to rush back into the tiger’s jaws to save her friend. Emiliano held his wife back as Milo shifted to block her.

  Talya.

  He glanced at the woman and watched her straining against the bonds.

  Her name was Talya.

  Vicente whispered something to his husband before guiding Gabriella out of the building. Emiliano returned to stand next to Milo, murmuring a request for a translation into Italian.

  Milo glanced at the other man, relief and a grim, dark pleasure at future violence making him smile. He turned as if consulting with Emiliano, once again telling him how to say what it was he wanted to say in Italian—a language Emiliano’s cover identity spoke fluently.

  Together, they returned to the room and Emiliano pointed at Talya. “My boss wants to know when you auction that one. He’ll be back for her.”

  The guard with Talya grinned evilly, removing his hand from her corset to pull her long black hair hard enough that she had no choice but to look up at him. “You hear that?” Denis taunted. “You’re next.”

  The look she gave them as they turned to leave was one of fear, but when her gaze focused on Milo, there was a question in her eyes. Maybe even a little hope.

  Milo shook his head, a small jerk, and he watched her expression crumple. Her head bowed; her shoulders slumped.

  I’ll be back for you, Milo vowed silently. Stay strong. Don’t let them break you.

  He willed her strength, willed her the courage she needed to survive.

  But the last view he had of Talya was of her slumped in the chair, alone with the monsters.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Wake up, whore.”

  Talya struggled to her feet. She only managed to stop herself from falling to the floor by reaching out and gripping the cinderblock wall beside her. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten anything. Or had a drink of water.

  She glanced at the open door of her latest cell to see one of her new guards standing at the threshold. He threw a small bottle of water at her, hitting her square in the chest, her reactions too slow, too sluggish to catch it.

  The plastic hit the floor, bouncing twice, and she followed it down, afraid it would break and spill. Rising, she uncapped it and greedily drank down every drop, not even bothering to save any for later. She’d given up thinking about later, about the future.

  After Gabriella’s auction, Talya had been shoved into a wooden crate and loaded into a truck, transported to God only knew where.

  All she knew was the trip lasted an eternity as she fought to hold her claustrophobia at bay. The claustrophobia was new and powerful—a result of the first time her captors had taken her and forced her into a crate. Hour after hour, she’d kept her eyes closed tightly, forcing herself to concentrate on her breathing.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  Several times, panic took over as she tried to beat her way out of the small, tight crate, banging on the lid, kicking as best she could at the wooden structure, crying, screaming, begging. Once, the terror got so bad she began to dry heave, grateful for the first time in weeks that there wasn’t anything in her stomach to throw up. Hunger and fear had become her constant companions, as familiar to her as her own reflection these days.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  Unlike her previous prison, this time she wasn’t being held in the dank basement of some house. Instead, she was in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Her cinderblock and concrete cell didn’t have bars, but a tiny windowless door. There was also a window, ten feet above her, that allowed a meager amount of sunlight to stream in, due to the large amount of dust and dirt coating the glass. Thanks to the window, she was actually able to chart the passage of days, though she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. There was a sort of ignorance-is-bliss quality to her time in the basement because she could fool herself into thinking she’d only been captive a few days.

  Here, now, with the setting of each day, she knew for a fact she’d been living in this cell for four weeks. Twenty-eight fucking days.

  Regardless of the cold darkness, she’d never been more grateful to see her new hellhole than when she’d first arrived, throwing herself out of the crate and against the wall the second the lid was lifted.

  Once she was “unloaded,” the new guards dragged the box out and slammed the door behind them, the sound of a heavy lock sliding into place. Talya had dropped down onto the thin mattress and closed her eyes, her exhaustion powerful enough to help her ignore the cold that had taken up permanent residence in her bones. She would never be warm again. That was a truth she’d come to accept.

  All she had to do was keep breathing. She could endure anything as long as she had air in her lungs.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  She’d done just that for the past four weeks. She’d endured the cold, hunger, and thirst. She tried not to think about how long she’d actually been captive—how many months had truly passed?

  Talya breathed and she endured.

  Her stomach was now cramping, thanks to the water, and she was so focused on that, she was startled when a new man entered her cell. “You’ve been a very bad girl, Talya,” his raspy, dark voice said.

  She raised her gaze to the man standing in the doorway. God only knew who he was, what new nightmare awaited her.

  She forced herself to stand straighter, though the pride she’d exhi
bited in the early days of her captivity had certainly taken a beating. It was getting harder and harder to fight back, to deny them what they wanted, and she’d begun to wonder what her breaking point would be.

  How close were they to shattering her spirit once and for all?

  And what would be left of her after that?

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  “Who are you?” she asked with false bravado.

  The man gestured to the lone metal chair in the cell. “Sit,” he demanded in French. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and breathing the smoke deep into his lungs.

  Talya refused to give him the position of power. “I prefer to stand.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, flashing with anger for only a moment before he composed himself. “Sit. And be aware I will not ask a third time.”

  “I didn’t hear you ask the first time,” she taunted, but the man didn’t react. He merely studied her, his ice-cold stare sending shivers down her spine. Talya hesitated for a moment, then decided she would be wise to pick her battles. She didn’t know this man, and until she’d discovered his nature, she would be smart to play along.

  She lowered herself into the cold metal chair, realizing the moment the man gave her a cocky smirk that she’d made a mistake. She should have picked this damn battle. Clearly, he thought her weak, easy prey.

  “Good girl,” he murmured, his condescending words setting her teeth on edge. “You can be taught. Perhaps it was beneficial for you to see what happens to women who disobey.”

  His taunt triggered an image.

  Of Gabriella on that horrible table. The things they did to her.