His to Win (Forever His #5)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Sabien

I'm only here to write a fat check and disappear.

That's what I tell myself as I sit in the back row of this overheated ballroom, surrounded by Manhattan's elite pretending they give a shit about charity.

Another boring night. Another tax write-off.

I check my watch for the fifth time in ten minutes.

Then the next auction lot is announced, and she walks out.

My body goes rigid. My blood turns to fire.

She steps onto the stage in this innocent little white dress that hugs every curve like it was designed by the devil himself.

Perky tits straining against the fabric.

Ass so round and perfect I can practically feel it filling my hands.

Long legs that would look perfect wrapped around my waist. But it's her face that punches me in the gut—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, trembling like a goddamn virgin sacrifice.

Because that's exactly what she is.

The MC drones on about dinner with a lovely young art student. Supporting local talent. Blah fucking blah. But I see what's really happening. I see the way every predator in this room is leaning forward. The hungry eyes. The adjusted crotches. The whispers behind hands.

She's shaking up there, clutching her little purse, completely fucking clueless that every wolf in this room is hard and imagining bending her over that podium.

The bidding starts at five thousand. A joke.

"Ten thousand," someone calls out immediately.

"Fifteen," from another corner.

She looks confused. Surprised. Jesus Christ, does she not understand what's happening? Did no one explain to this innocent little thing what these men are actually bidding on?

"Twenty-five thousand," calls out Henderson from the investment firm across town. I know that piece of shit. Three divorces, all from women half his age who couldn't stand his wandering hands.

"Thirty," counters Richardson, whose yacht parties are legendary for the young "models" who never seem to remember much the next day.

The bids climb higher. Fifty. Seventy-five. A hundred thousand. For one dinner with the little angel on stage, who stands there blushing, her hands trembling slightly.

The comments start, quiet at first, then louder as the alcohol and competition embolden them.

"Look at those tits."

"Bet she's tight as fuck."

"I'd keep her for the weekend."

Every word is a match to gasoline in my chest. Rage explodes through me, burning so hot I can barely breathe. My fists clench until my knuckles crack. My jaw locks so tight my teeth might shatter.

She isn't for them.

She's mine. I knew it the second she walked on that stage. Something primal and possessive burst to life inside me. A need. An obsession. A claim.

Mine.

The bidding passes three hundred thousand. I watch her eyes widen. She has no idea what she's worth. No idea what these men want to do to her.

"Three-fifty and I'll have her screaming by midnight," laughs some trust fund prick from the front row.

That's it.

I stand.

The entire room freezes. Conversations halt mid-sentence. All eyes turn to me. They know who I am. Everyone knows who I am. What I'm capable of. What happens to those who cross me.

"Auction's over," I growl, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

The auctioneer swallows hard. "Sir, we still have active bidders who—"

"I said it's over." Each word drops like ice. "I'm donating ten million to your cause. Right now."

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Ten million. Twenty times what they hoped to raise all night.

"The girl is leaving." I lock eyes with her. She’s staring at me with parted lips and wide eyes. "With me."

No one argues. No one dares. Money talks, but fear speaks louder. And everyone in this room fears me.

The auctioneer recovers quickly, switching to fawning gratitude. I ignore him. My eyes never leave the trembling beauty as I stride toward the stage. I climb the steps slowly, deliberately. Stalking my prey.

Up close, she's even more perfect. Skin like porcelain. Lips full and pink. Body trembling slightly. The scent of her—vanilla and something uniquely female—hits me like a drug.

"Mr. Wolfe," she whispers, clearly recognizing me. Most people do.

I lean close, my mouth near her ear, letting her feel my heat, my size, my power. "Come with me now."

It's not a request.

She nods, those big innocent eyes locked on mine. Good girl.

I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her offstage. Every man in the room watches, envy and defeat written across their faces. They know what's happening. They know she belongs to me now.

As we walk toward the exit, I already know exactly what's going to happen next.

I'm going to take this innocent little thing to my penthouse.

I'm going to strip her bare and spread her wide.

I'm going to fuck her until she screams my name, pump her so full of my come it drips down those perfect thighs.

Then I'm going to lock her in my penthouse where no other man will ever look at her again.

Because she’s mine now. And what's mine stays mine. Forever.