He stops by a painting that’s all white, except for a single, violent red slash through the center. I stare at it, as he stares at me.
“You’re not sure what to make of the artwork,” he says.
“Not really,” I admit.
“Most people don’t,” he says. “But that’s what makes it worth so much.”
He touches my arm, just above the elbow, and the contact is electric.
“Sometimes,” he says, “the most valuable things are the ones that can’t be explained. That can’t be put into words.”
I’m trembling, not just inside but all over. His hand stays on my arm, and I don’t pull away.
For a long minute, we stand together, not talking, just breathing. I let myself lean into his touch. I don’t want to, but I do.
I look up, meeting his gaze.
I don’t know this man, not really. But I do know that he’s godawful attractive, with that black hair, piecing blue eyes and strong jaw.
I want him to ruin me. But I also want to matter. Yet that’s the issue. If he buys me, it will be nothing more than a transaction. By definition, I won’t matter because he’ll only be paying for my curves. If he wins, that is.
I turn away, needing air. “I need to think,” I say, voice thin.
Hunter lets me go, but his hand drifts down to my wrist before I depart. “Whatever you choose, Daisy, it’ll be the right thing.”
I nod, and walk away, the club spinning around me like a planet.
All I can hear is the sound of my own heart, pounding in time with his.
I hide in my suite,staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what it is I want.
To be sold? To be owned? Or to run, and pretend I never saw the inside of this place?
All I know is that I want Hunter to want me.
And that scares me more than anything else in the world.
I decided to nap a bit, and when I wake, it’s pitch black outside my window. The city glows below—distant, untouchable—but the suite is darker than a confession booth, and just as heavy with sin. My mind is spinning from the day’s events: the exam, the gallery, Hunter’s face when he learned I was a “true virgin.”
Every thought runs back to him, loops through the memory of his lips parting as he stared down at me, blue eyes all fire and ice. I want to forget the whole conversation about auctions and men who pay fortunes for forbidden fruit, but my brain replays it on a relentless loop. Every time I try to breathe, I remember the exact way his gaze trailed down my body, slow and possessive, as if he’d already paid for me.
I can’t sit still. I get up, pace the suite, try on every dress they’ve given me. Some are silk, some are soft cotton, but all of them are designed to make you feel like the best, most sexy version of yourself. I stare at my reflection in the mirror: blonde hair wild, cheeks flushed, tits barely contained by the new lingerie they left folded in a box on my bed. I look like a girl in a movie right before she ruins her life, or maybe right after.
Eventually, I lose the battle and text Hunter.
Me: “I can’t sleep. Can you come to my suite?”
OMG, what am I doing? Am I really inviting a powerful alpha male to my room in the middle of the night? But before I can unsend the message, a reply flashes.
Hunter: “On my way.”
He arrives ten minutes later,dark suit swapped for jeans and a black sweater that makes his body look even bigger, more dangerous. He’s carrying a bottle of expensive alcohol, and when he enters, the energy in the room shifts, like gravity has decided it wants him more than me.
He closes the door softly, sets the bottle on the table, and looks me over. His gaze is slow and deliberate, tracing every inch of bare leg between the hem of my nightdress and my knees.
“You look restless,” he says.
I try to play cool, but my voice is breathless. “I am. I can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier.”
