She knows what's happening. She knows what these men plan to do with her.
And she's not crying. Not begging. She's memorizing every face so she can destroy them later.
Da. I chose right.
"Two million," someone calls from the front row. A Saudi prince whose appetites are legendary in certain circles. The kind of man who uses women until they break and then discards the pieces. This prince has vast amounts of wealth that ensures he always gets what he wants.
So do I.
"Two point five," counters a voice to my left. American. Tech money. I know this one too. His predilections run toward the violent that leave a lot of his lovers dead.
Onyx's hands tremble harder, but her chin stays high.
"Three million."
"Three point five."
I pour another vodka and let the numbers climb a few more notches. Four million. Four point five. The crowd is getting excited now, sensing blood in the water, eager to see who will claim the prize.
Five million.
The room holds its breath.
I wrap my fingers around the paddle, feeling the smooth wood against my palm, the weight of what I'm about to do settling into my bones. Then I raise it, slow and deliberate, letting every eye in the room find me before I speak.
"Twenty million."
My voice cuts through the silence like a blade, deep and flat and final. It echoes off the vaulted ceiling, bounces back from the stained glass windows, fills every corner of this desecrated church with the weight of my intent.
Silence. Complete, absolute silence. Every head in the room swivels toward me. The auctioneer's practiced smile falters, his mouth hanging open for a split second before he recovers. The Saudi prince's face contorts with rage, mottled red creeping up his neck.
I meet his eyes and let him see exactly what I am. The monster. The beast. He has all the free will afforded by his royal status. But I have something he doesn’t.
Our gazes connect and he reads my silent message. He remembers the Russian in the back room of Redthorn Holdings. The man who swiftly detached his pinky finger for crossing his client while under a contract enforced by the Syndicate.
He also remembers the price we collected from him. Not only five hundred million in gold bars. But also his youngest brother, the one with the gambling debts who now owes the Syndicate more than his royal allowance could cover in three lifetimes.
The prince inclines his head in my direction out of respect and lowers his paddle.
"Twenty million from the gentleman in the back," the auctioneer recovers, his voice pitched higher now with barely concealed excitement. "Do I hear twenty point five?"
Nothing. No one moves. No one fucking breathes.
When Konstantin Vetrov wants something, wise men get the fuck out of my way.
"Going once." The auctioneer scans the crowd, desperate for another bid. "Going twice."
On stage, Onyx's eyes find mine across the sea of silk and predators. I watch her take in my size, my stillness, the way I'm watching her like she's the only person in this room. Something flickers across her face. Fear, yes. But something else too. Calculation. Assessment.
She's not looking at me like prey looks at a predator. She's looking at me like one predator sizing up another.
Good girl.
"Sold!" The hammer falls, the crack echoing through the room like a gunshot. "To the gentleman in the back for twenty million dollars."
The crowd erupts in murmurs. Jealousy. Speculation. A few men eye me with open hostility. Let them. I didn't come here to make friends.
I rise from my seat and move toward the stage, the crowd parting before me like water around a shark. I feel their eyes on my back, hot with envy and cold with calculation. The floorboards creak beneath my weight. The stage lights grow brighter, warmer, as I approach, washing everything in harsh white that makes the shadows deeper.
