"Three months," she says, her voice devoid of any warmth. "You allow us to sell you off at an auction. Only the richest people are invited. You specify your limits beforehand—what you will do, what you won't. If they decide you’re worth the price tag, they pay a shit ton of money. After ninety days, you’re free."
My brain is sluggish, trying to process the words through the haze of the Viagra and the stinging fire between my legs. Freedom? That’s not a word for pieces of meat like me.
"Why?" I rasp. My voice is like gravel, unused to anything but grunts and 'yes, ma'am.'
"I’m a scout," she says, leaning back. "I find the best 'assets' for the auction. You’re a waste here, getting used for fifty bucks a pop by whoever walks through the door. The auction will change your life. Once you agree to it, those low-lifes who trafficked you? They don't touch you. We handle the... transition. You won't be hurt or killed. After you get auctioned off, you have three months with the buyer. After that? You’re free to do whatever you want with the money, and whatever the fuck it is you want to do in your life."
My heart hammers against my ribs. It’s a silver platter. But there’s always a catch. People like her don’t give things away for free.
Could she be lying? Am I just moving from one cage to another? But fuck it... I at least have to try.
"Nothing they could do to me in three months..." I mutter, more to myself than to her. I think about the last ten years. The beatings, the torture, and the endless, nameless bodies. "Nothing could be worse than this."
Truly, nothing could be worse than this. I owe it to myself to try, to have a little hope, despite all my doubts. The worst that can happen has already happened. There’s not much more to fear.
"Exactly," she says with a smirk. "You’re a big man. You’ve got that 'beast' look down. It’s a selling point that’ll drive the bidding through the roof. You may walk away from all of this with millions to your name."
Millions? That’s something I can’t even fathom.
If I say yes, I'm betting my life on ninety days of whatever sick fantasies some billionaire has. But if I say no, I’m going to die in this room, my dick rotting off, and my muscles eventually failing until I'm tossed in a dumpster like the rest of the 'used' trash.
I reach out, my scarred fingers brushing against her soft, pale hand as I take the card.
"I’ll do it," I say.
I made my choice. I’ll have to live with it, whatever its consequences are.
"Good choice," she says, standing up. She doesn't even look at my dick anymore. The transaction is over. "A car will be at the back entrance at midnight. Don’t bring anything. You won’t be in need of anything where you’re going."
She walks out, the click of her heels sounding behind her.
I look at the card in my hand and then down at my raw, ruined body.
Ninety days.
I can do ninety days of anything if it means I never have to see this room again. I'd walk through fire for ninety days if it meant I could finally escape.
Chapter Two
Viktor
This week has been a fucking mind game.
When I crawled into the back of that limousine, I honestly expected to be stopped. I waited for the bastards who trafficked me to show up with their goons and guns, beat me half to death, and throw me back into the brothel to fuck women who love the power trip of forcing a man who can’t say no to his knees.
Except, I got into the car without anyone whispering a word to me. We drifted off to a mansion that looks like something out of a dream, and I was given a bedroom.
I have a bedroom.
A real fucking bed. I lie on it and wait for someone to kick me off, to tell me I’m a dog and I belong on the concrete, but the command never comes.
I spend hours in the bathroom. The water is hot—so hot it turns my scarred skin a violent shade of red. I stand there until my lungs are thick with steam, fighting the urge to never leave. Back in that hole, I shivered under a trickle of grey water that never washed the smell of sex off my skin.
They gave me clothes. Designer tags that scratch against my neck. It’s been ten years since I wore something that wasn't a hand-me-down stained with some other guy's piss or a client's perfume.
And the food actually looks like something a human is supposed to eat. No more grey sludge or blended gristle.
With no one forcing steroid injections into me anymore, my muscles have shrunk a little. But I don’t let a day pass without working out—if I do, I wake up in cold sweats from dreams of being beaten. I don't go to the gym they offered—I hate crowds. I hate the way people look at me with pity, sometimes even disgust. People have brought me nothing but pain, and I don't want them looking at me while I train. So, I stay in my room and use the couch as a weight.
