Slowly, reluctantly, she takes my hand.
Her fingers are ice cold. I fold mine around them, warming her whether she wants it or not, and guide her down from the stage. The crowd parts for us. I feel their eyes tracking our movement—hungry, resentful, curious.
Paddle twelve steps into our path. "Five million," he says, blocking our way. "That's quite a sum for one girl. Must be something special about her."
I stop walking. Bianca's hand tightens in mine.
"Move," I say quietly.
"I'm just making conversation." His eyes slide to Bianca, crawling over her body with undisguised interest. "If you ever get tired of her, I'd be happy to take her off your hands. I have a place in the Caribbean. Very private. She'd be well cared for."
The image flashes through my mind—Bianca on his island, Bianca in his hands, Bianca disappearing like all the others. My vision narrows to a single point.
"Touch her," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "and I'll send your hands back to your family in a box."
The man pales. He steps aside.
I guide Bianca past him, through the crowd, toward the exit. My hand stays on the small of her back—possessive,protective, both. She's rigid under my touch, vibrating with tension.
We're almost to the door when a voice calls out behind us.
"Kashkin."
I stop. Turn.
Carmine Benedetti stands at the edge of the crowd, flanked by two sons I recognize from surveillance photos. Enzo and Sal. The men who delivered her here like lambs to slaughter.
Carmine looks older than his file photos. Grayer. More desperate. He stares at me with something between fear and calculation.
"I didn't realize the Kashkins were interested in tonight's offerings," he says carefully.
"We weren't." I keep my voice pleasant. Conversational. "Until you put something valuable on the block."
His eyes flick to Bianca. I feel her stiffen beside me.
"She's my daughter," Carmine says.
"She was your daughter. Now she's mine." I smile, and I make sure he sees the wolf behind it. "Thank you for the gift, Carmine. I'll take very good care of her."
I turn before he can respond, steering Bianca through the exit and into the corridor beyond. The door swings shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the auction room.
Bianca wrenches her arm free. "Don't touch me."
I let her go. We stand in the empty corridor—industrial lighting, concrete walls, the muffled sound of the auction continuing without us.
"You have questions," I say.
"Questions?" She laughs, the sound sharp and broken. "You disappeared for two years. Two years without a word. And now you show up at an auction where my father is selling me and you—youbuyme? Like I'm property?"
"You were property the moment you walked through those doors. I simply made sure the right person owned you."
"The right person." Her voice shakes. "And that's you? The man who told me he wasn't who I thought he was? The man who said he'd only hurt me?"
"Yes." I check my watch. Alexei will have the car waiting. "We need to move. This building isn't secure."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Bianca." I step closer, and she backs up until she hits the wall. I cage her there—not touching, but close enough that she has to look at me. "Your father owes the Morozov family more money than he can ever repay. He sold you to settle that debt. The auction was their operation. Do you understand what that means?"
