Chapter 107: Chapter 107 - Taste the Product
Morning did not come as fast as she wanted.
It crept in slow and gray through the cracks in boarded windows, light dull and cold, touching the room without warmth, revealing what night had tried to hide. The fire had burned low, reduced to embers that barely glowed, the smell of smoke and sweat and something sour clinging to the walls.
Iyisha had not slept.
Not even when her body begged for it.
The men who had raped the woman stayed.
They sat near the door through the night, rifles across their knees, boots stretched toward the fire, talking in low voices that never fully dropped into silence.
Sometimes they laughed softly. Sometimes one of them stood and paced.
Iyisha stayed curled inside the crate, knees drawn in as far as the metal allowed. Her muscles burned from holding herself still.
Every time her eyes fluttered closed, her body snapped them open again, panic jerking her awake before sleep could take her under.
If she slept, she would lose time.
If she lost time, she would lose control.
The woman who had been taken lay crumpled back in her crate, wrapped in a blanket someone had tossed at her like an afterthought. She did not cry anymore. She did not move. 11
Lauren had gone quiet too.
Too quiet.
The guards did not look at them.
Not because they were kind.
Because they did not need to.
Iyisha watched the light change inch by inch, gray turning paler, shadows shifting across the floor. Her body shook from exhaustion and shock, her teeth clicking softly no matter how hard she clenched her jaw.
Her mind drifted and snapped back again, thoughts looping, fear pressing down until it felt like weight on her chest.
She thought of Malcolm.
Not as a comfort.
As an anchor.
Iyisha leaned forward as far as the crate allowed. "Lauren," she whispered. "I’m here."
Lauren did not turn, but her rocking slowed.
Marybeth watched Iyisha for a long moment, something measuring in her gaze.
"You heading for the Motherhold?" she said.
Iyisha nodded.
Marybeth let out a breath. "Should’ve gone with a military escort."
Guilt stabbed sharp and immediate.
"I know," Iyisha said.
The words felt like penance.
Marybeth studied her closely, eyes narrowing, then softening just enough to hurt.
"The Motherhold isn’t," she whispered.
A sudden bang cut them off.
The door slammed open.
Iyisha closed her eyes instantly, her body obeying before thought could catch up, muscles going slack, breath locking in her chest as heavy footsteps crossed the floor.
"Why does he need to come himself?" a deep voice snapped.
It sounded like that man dragging a cigarette.
Someone dropped into the sofa near the fire. Leather creaked under the weight.
"He wanted to see the goods, boss," another man replied.
Iyisha’s stomach clenched.
So it really is him.
The guards shifted the moment the door opened, straightening, boots scraping lightly as the air in the room changed around the leader’s presence.
A low laugh followed. "Because of that man."
Silence stretched.
"We should’ve just killed him," someone muttered.
The leader exhaled slowly. "Tell Anderson to get ready today," he said. "Make sure the man is prepared."
"Yes, boss," the other voice answered, uneasy now. "That cyborg gives me the creeps."
"He’s generous," the leader said lightly. "And that’s what matters."
He stood.
The sound of his boots touching the floor again sliced through Iyisha like a blade, slow and deliberate, each step closer making the space inside her chest collapse inward as if her body already knew what was coming and was trying to retreat from it.
"Especially when we caught four women," he added, a quiet chuckle threading through the room.
Metal rang.
Not loud. Not violent.
Just enough.
His hand struck the side of her crate, a casual tap that sent vibration straight through the wire and into her bones.
Iyisha froze.
Her breath locked halfway in, lungs burning as panic surged so fast it made her dizzy.
"Have you welcomed them?" the leader asked.
"No, boss," one of the guards replied, laughter thick and careless. "Our balls are dry."
The men laughed.
The sound wrapped around her like hands.
"Hm," the leader murmured.
He moved again.
Closer.
The floor creaked beneath his weight and Iyisha’s vision blurred as her mind betrayed her, dragging her backward in time without permission, without mercy.
The farmhouse.
Rotting wood. Voices laughing when she struggled. The way the room had seemed to tilt, reality slipping as fear swallowed everything else. That day they nearly raped her and they were able to escape by sheer luck and Malcolm’s will.
She doesn’t know now.
Her muscles curled in on themselves, knees pulled tight to her chest as far as the crate would allow, spine curved, arms locked around her middle like she could hold herself together if she tried hard enough.
Then he was there.
She felt his presence before she saw him, the air changing, pressure pressing down as if the room itself leaned toward him.
When she forced her eyes open, he stood directly in front of her crate, green eyes bright and alive with interest, watching her the way men watched meat they intended to cut.
He smiled.
Slow.
Enjoying it.
"Well," he said softly, amusement threading his voice. "This one looks pretty."
His tongue dragged briefly over his lip.
A man laughed nearby. "I’ve got her penciled in at two."
More laughter followed, sharp and cruel, the sound of men already dividing something that was not theirs.
Iyisha’s chest seized.
Knowing what came next. Knowing there would be no bargaining. Knowing that whatever she did or didn’t do would not matter. The realization settled heavy and final in her gut, stealing the last illusion of choice.
"No," she whispered.
The leader didn’t look away.
"Take her out," he said casually, like he was ordering food.
The words detonated inside her.
"No no no," Iyisha cried as hands reached for the crate.
The door rattled.
She scrambled backward instinctively, nails scraping uselessly against wire as she crawled into the farthest corner, pressing herself flat against metal, her body folding in on itself like it might disappear if it became small enough.
Her heart slammed so violently she thought it would tear her apart.
She knew.
She knew exactly what they were going to do.
And this time, the terror wasn’t in the unknown.
It was in the certainty.
The crate door flew open and she screamed.
Not a sound pulled from her throat carefully, not measured, not restrained, but a shriek that tore out of her chest raw and uncontrolled, high and breaking as hands reached in and grabbed her all at once.
"Easy," one of them laughed.
She wasn’t.
She thrashed wildly, knees slamming into wire, fingers clawing at anything she could reach, her scream turning hoarse as they yanked her forward. The metal scraped her skin as she was dragged out, her body twisting violently, heels kicking, nails scraping against arms and faces.
"Fuck," one of them snarled as she raked her nails across his cheek.
Skin tore.
Blood bloomed.
"She’s feral," another cursed, tightening his grip painfully.
They hauled her anyway.
She screamed again when they slammed her onto the table, the impact knocking the breath clean out of her lungs, pain flashing white behind her eyes. She gasped and choked, panic exploding as hands pinned her shoulders, her hips, her thighs.
"Get her still," someone snapped.
"No," she shrieked, voice breaking. "No no no—please—"
Her words tangled and fell apart, turning into sobbing gasps as she bucked beneath them, scratching, biting, thrashing with everything she had left.
The leader laughed.
Right there.
Close enough that she could smell him.
"Look at her," he said, delighted. "She’s fighting."
His eyes gleamed, green and hungry, fixed on her like the struggle itself was what he wanted most.
She knew.
Some part of her knew it was making it worse.
And still she couldn’t stop.
The leader pulled off his beanie and tossed it aside.
Her scream rose again, thin and cracked, scraping her throat raw.
"No—please—stop—"
Each sound landed like a countdown.
The men holding her laughed louder now, tightening their grip as she bucked and twisted, dress riding up under their hands, nothing beneath it to protect her, to slow what was coming.
"Pretty," the leader said, licking his lip as his eyes dragged over her. "Real pretty."
Disgust churned hot and violent in her gut.
She kicked harder.
Thrashed until her muscles burned and her vision blurred, until her wrists ached where fingers dug in to keep her pinned.
His jacket came off.
She kicked harder, heel catching someone in the ribs.
"Son of a bitch," a man snarled, slapping her leg down.
The belt slid free.
Leather hissed.
Her whole body shook violently now, breath stuttering, chest heaving as she fought until her muscles burned and failed and burned again.
The zipper came down.
The sound was small.
Too close.
She screamed again, louder than before, the sound tearing itself apart as panic swallowed everything else, her body bucking helplessly beneath them, nails scraping uselessly against skin and fabric and wood.
