His voice is soft. Almost gentle. It's the gentleness that terrifies me most—because gentle men don't shut down auctions with violence. Don't have soldiers who move like trained killers. Don't look at women like they're inventory.
I descend carefully, grateful when my ankles hold. Each step closes the distance between me and whatever he's already decided.
“Auction.” The word tastes like shame and desperation—like the moment the hospice nurse explained they'd reduce Grandma's pain medication, and Grandma smiled and said she was fine even as she winced with every breath.
I'd give anything for her. My dignity. My body. Whatever pieces of myself I have left to trade. He can have all of it.
Just not my soul.
"What's your name?"
Something in his expression tells me he already knows.
"Jana." My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. I hold onto that small victory. "Jana Spears."
"Jana." The way he says it sounds like a decision. Like he's testing the weight of it in his mouth. "Tell me why you're here."
Not a question. A command wrapped in courtesy.
I could lie. I *should* lie. But liars need good memories, and I'm so exhausted I can barely remember what day it is.
"My grandmother is dying." The words crack something open in my chest. "Renal failure. Stage five. Dialysis three times a week, medications that—" My throat tightens. I stop before I spill everything. Before I hand him all of it. "I needed money. Fast."
"And you thought selling your virginity to strangers would solve that?"
Heat surges through my chest, sharp and sudden, burning clean through the fear. "I thought fifty thousand dollars would buy her another year."
"Fifty thousand." He says the number like it offends him. "You sell yourself too cheap." He takes a step closer. "I don't sell women, Jana. I don't allow women to be sold in my establishments." Another step. "But I understand transactions."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "What are you saying?"
"A private contract. Two weeks under my protection." He closes another foot of distance. "Your grandmother's medical care—all of it—handled. And I'll pay you."
*Under his protection.* The phrase does nothing to comfort me. If anything, it drops my stomach, because protection from a man like this comes with conditions I'm not ready to consider.
"How much?" The question escapes before I can dress it up in anything more dignified. We're past pretending.
"How much were you willing to leave with tonight?"
I swallow. "Fifty thousand. Starting bid."
His eyes narrow. "I'll give you one hundred and fifty thousand. For two weeks."
The number steals my breath. Three times what I'd hoped for. Enough to cover Grandma's care for years instead of months.
Before I can stop myself: "What would you want? For that price?"
His smile is a wolf's smile. "Everything."
Something reckless rises in my chest—some last shred of defiance that refuses to go quietly—and the words tumble out before I can catch them: "For two hundred thousand, I'll stay two weeks. And I'll give you *some* things."
His eyebrow lifts. "Some things?"
"Some things." I hold his gaze even though everything in me wants to look away. "No one gets everything they want in life. Not even you."
The silence stretches long enough for me to understand I've miscalculated. Pushed somewhere I shouldn't have.
Then he laughs—real, genuine, and somehow more unsettling than his coldness, because it means I've surprised him. And surprises from men like him rarely end well.
