I cut along the edge of the dance floor, past the bar, past a couple pressed against the wall, my focus locked on the one woman who should never be here. By the time I reach the auction room, my gaze goes straight to the stage at the far end. Hundreds sit in attendance, little numbered paddles resting in their laps.
I step in just as the emcee finishes with the girl onstage and an employee guides her off.
“And now,” he announces, his voice carrying through the room, “please help me welcome claim number four, Ms. Sloane. Twenty-three, stunning, eager to please, ready to belong to her new owner for the next thirty days.”
A hush rolls through the crowd. Then she walks out, led by a woman who releases her hand at center stage before fading back into the shadows.
Every one of my muscles spirals as she stands there, barely dressed, under the eyes of everyone in the room.
My gaze drags over the crowd, over the people staring at her, and a violent urge rises to tear their eyes out for daring to look—at her perfect breasts, at the curve of her hips, at everything that makes my hands itch to take her, to mark her as mine.
When her hands tremble at her sides, I’m already moving toward the stage with every intention of pulling her off it. Consequences be damned.
What are you doing, solnishko?
The answer is obvious. Money. Desperation. Every reason she should have come to me instead of walking into a room full of strangers who will treat her like something to play with instead of taking care of her the way I would.
When the emcee lays a hand against the small of her back, giving her a little turn so the crowd can appreciate what they think is for sale, she goes rigid, and my jaw clamps so tight it throbs.
I’m going to kill him for this. I don’t care what Konstantin says about it.
“Starting bid at five hundred thousand,” he calls. “Do I have five?”
“Five,” I say, loud enough that the first few rows turn toward me.
The emcee’s head snaps in my direction. “We have five hundred. Do I hear six?”
Her eyes find mine, and her chest lifts like she just drew in a sharp breath.
That’s right. I’m here. You really thought you could hide this from me?
My anger only sharpens.
To my right, a man in a blue mask leans back in his chair, his attention shifting from Sloane to me as if I’ve finally made this interesting for him.
You don’t want to play this game, mudak.
“Six hundred.” He throws on a condescending smirk.
Sloane tenses, like she doesn’t want him to win.
Don’t worry, detka. He won’t.
“Eight hundred.” I raise my paddle.
I don’t lose. Not when it matters this much.
“Eight hundred. Do I hear nine?” the emcee presses.
“Nine.” The man’s eyes fix on me, grin widening like he has a death wish I will gladly grant.
“I would stop now if I were you,” I tell him.
A couple of people close enough to hear go still, but he just lets out a short laugh.
“I don’t think I will.” He draws in a long shallow breath. “I want her.” He lifts his paddle higher. “One million.”
Well, that was a mistake on his part.
