At least I had twenty-one years of my life before this. My upbringing wasn’t without its hardships, but I was alive. I was alwayssafe.Always untouched. I was eleven years old when I was first told howspecialI was. How my grandfather managed to spare my life by giving his sworn oath that he would prepare me for this—my ultimate penance to the Brotherhood for my father’s mistakes.
Kit is shoved out of the room, still crying, and the crowd predictably jeers her for it. I imagined they would have grown smaller and quieter by now with forty-nine lots sold already, but they sound as great in number as they have all night. And even more riled up.
“They’re all waiting for you, ya know?” Snake Tattoo says.
I don’t look at him, keeping my eyes trained on the door.
He steps closer and trails the tip of the barrel of his semiautomatic across my cheekbone. “Lot 51.” He snickers like an adolescent boy seeing a pair of breasts for the first time.
When he crouches down, his sour breath washes over my face and makes me want to retch. I fight back the instinct and stare through his disgusting face. “They all want a piece of you, uptight little bitch. Some real sick fucks looking to spend a lot of money to get their hands on your untouched cunt.”
Panic swims up from my gut, fighting for a stranglehold. But I breathe through it.
In. Out.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
Three, four, knock at the door.
He leans closer, his eyes only inches from mine, and tilts his head from side to side like the cobra on his neck would—right before it strikes its prey. “And your ass, I expect. Mouth. Nose. Ears. Not a part of you will go unfucked and unused. Traitor.”
I stare, unblinking.In. Out.
Five, six. Pick up sticks.
He leans closer still, and then he licks a trail from my cheekbone over my right eye socket to the top of my forehead. I don’t flinch. Don’t even blink. I leave his rancid saliva on my skin, where it sears my flesh like acid. My fingertips twitch and my limbs ache to move, to wipe him off me. Gripped by a visceral need to clean his stench from my body.
But I don’t. I go on breathing.
In. Out.
Seven, eight. Lay them straight.
Mercifully, Snake Tattoo tires of trying to get a reaction from me and returns to his spot against the wall. And now we both stare at the door.
I go on breathing. Reciting the nursery rhyme over and over while I drown out the sound of the crowd as they force Kit to strip naked before some sick fuck buys her. I repeat the words like a mantra, until I unlock the safe space deep inside me, the place where nobody else can ever be. Where nobody can touch me.
“Your turn, bitch,” Snake Tattoo says, yanking me out of the comfort of my trancelike state.
I jump to my feet before he has a chance to lay a finger on me, brush the creases from my black dress, and take slow, steady steps toward the door. My knees quiver with each small stride, but I go on putting one foot in front of the other. This is the end, but also the beginning. And every new beginning is an opportunity for change. Perhaps the person who buys me will not be a devil, but a lonely man—or woman—who simply wants a companion.
I immediately chide myself for such foolish thoughts. Larissa warned me that my mind would try to make bargains like this. But that is not the reality of the world I live in. Nice people do not come to auctions organized by the Brotherhood. Nice people do not buy other people from heinous events where women are paraded like slabs of meat. Every new beginning is an opportunity for revenge. For escape. For retribution.
The door is opened by Ugly, and despite my resolve, it takes a nudge from the barrel of Snake’s gun to urge me through it. I stumble into the bright spotlights illuminating the stage, and I’m welcomed by a smiling emcee dressed in a smart tuxedo, looking like he’s hosting a charity auction. Like all of this is in any way normal.
I walk onstage to a chorus of jeers, catcalls, and vile comments about mypussy.
Deep breath.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
Just a few words and I’m back in that space where they can’t get to me. Can’t taint me.
“Now, now, patrons,” says the guy in the tux, his shark teeth glinting under the lights. “I know this one here is tonight’s star prize. But we’re going to behave with some decorum, gentlemen. There’ll be no seeing the goods until we have some serious bids. I’m authorized to open at half a million dollars.”
Gentlemen, my ass! Sick, twisted fucks.
The crowd starts up again. But through their lewd comments and their disgusting noises, one loud deep voice cuts through them all. “Ten million dollars.”
