Could I do it?
Could I go back to the place where Brandon lost his life and mine was destroyed?
Could I live under the same roof with the man who caused my brother’s death?
Altair and Brandon were both children, but he did it, Altair did it…
“One thousand five hundred,” Altair says, breaking through my thoughts.
The crowd gasps, then falls silent. Everyone waits for my answer.
I look over the crowd, at the monsters watching me with hungry eyes and open mouths. I look at the auctioneer, whose hands are shaking as he clutches his table. I bite my lower lip and look at Altair.
He grew into a handsome man, of course he did. All wyverns are breathtaking – both men and women – and he was always going to be handsome. He’s the young Lord of House Aurellion, golden, and perfect, and cruel.
What does he want with me?
Is he truly buying me to be his wife? That makes no sense. There’s no reason for him to want me, no reason for him to be here at all.
I can’t understand his logic – if he has any – and the confusion combined with the ridiculous amount of gold makes the decision for me.
“Sold,” I say.
A breath of relief ripples through the crowd, as if everyone wanted me to say yes. Who would say no to one thousand five hundred gold? Even the monsters who bid against him seem pleased, nodding their heads and murmuring to each other. They lost fair and square.
The auctioneer shakes all over as he motions for Altair to approach and sign the contract. What follows is a blur. I sign my name with a trembling hand, and Altair takes out a pouch of gold from somewhere in his coat.
“It’s only eight hundred,” he says to the auctioneer. “I’ll give her the rest later.”
I step forward before I can stop myself.
“I need a piece of paper,” I say.
The auctioneer hands me a sheet and a pen, and I write quickly to Alana. The note is short and rushed, but it says what needs to be said. I tell her not to worry about me, and to use the money to help my father and her family. I ask her to please respect my wish for her never to work again, at least not at the Velvet Angels.
I fold the note and pass it to the auctioneer along with the pouch of gold.
“Please send this to the address I wrote down,” I say.
The man nods and makes a note in the contract, and I know he’ll respect my wishes. He must; it’s written down now.
I follow Altair out of the crowd, through the parted masses of monsters who watch us leave. We walk to the back of the field and stop a few feet apart. The space between us feels like a chasm I’ll never cross.
“You know who I am,” he says.
“And you know who I am,” I reply.
“Tressa,” he says, my name rolling off his tongue.
“Altair,” I say, his name tasting like poison in my mouth.
He smirks at me. “How is your mother? And your father?”
I look at him with all the hate I’ve carried for fourteen years.
“My mother is dead,” I say. “And my father is drinking himself to death.”
Altair purses his lips but says nothing.
