Hungry. He looks hungry.
“Five hundred credits,” someone bids.
“Five thousand.” His voice carries across the entire hall. Deep enough to feel in my bones.
The crowd shifts. The other non-humans pull back from him, even the ones nowhere near him. They're afraid. No—wary. Like when you realize the dog you're petting might be rabid.
Numbers keep climbing. Eight. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
He stops bidding at five thousand.
But the Vethani is the only one still looking at me instead of calculating profit margins. The others see merchandise. He sees something else.
I don't know what he sees. But when our eyes meet, something in my chest recognizes something in his. Like calling to like. Monster to monster.
“I choose him.”
The auctioneer stutters. “You're choosing five thousand over twenty?”
“Yes.”
The smart choice would be the twenty-thousand bidder. A fortune that could buy a life of quiet comfort. But quiet comfort was the one thing I couldn't stand, not anymore. I didn't come here for smart choices.
And something about him—the hunger in his eyes, the way he watched me bleed, the promise of pain in his massive frame—says he can give me what I need.
Settlement room three is cramped.He takes up most of it just sitting down. This close, he smells like winter and iron and danger. My pulse quickens despite my exhaustion.
“Why?” One word. No preamble.
I show him my palm. The crescents are already clotting, but the intention is clear.
“You look like someone who understands necessity.”
We don't talk about what kind of necessity. We don't need to. He dismisses his own guards with a curt nod, sending them back through their own transport.
The paperwork is quick. Transport circle three is quicker. The moment I step into the circle with him, pressure compresses us together. I'm crushed against his chest, his arm around me to keep me stable.
He's hard. His erection is a thick, rigid length against his thigh, the heavy leather doing little to conceal its scale.
I should be afraid. Or disgusted. Or something other than curious.
Instead, I turn my face into his chest and breathe. He smells like the moment before flint strikes steel. Like blood frozen under snow.
His arm tightens. His other hand comes to the back of my head, fingers spanning from ear to ear. He's shaking. Just slightly. The kind of tremor that comes from holding back.
Reality folds. My stomach tries to exist in six dimensions at once.
Then we're through.
The courtyard is black stone under three moons. The architecture hurts to look at—stairs that loop back on themselves, doorways that open onto nothing, angles that shouldn't exist.
As my vision clears, a tall man in practical, unadorned armor detaches himself from the shadows to give a crisp nod.
“My Lord. An unexpected return,” the man says, his voice a low gravel.
“A change of plans, Captain,” Kiakoa says, his voice tight. He doesn't look at the captain, or at me. He's already turning away, the soldier following.
He releases me immediately. Steps back so fast he almost trips.
