Bought By the Pain Hunter (Monsters’ Bride Market #4)

Kiakoa

The Ward Seed pulses on the auction block, throwing purple light across the warehouse walls. Each pulse drives deeper into my jaw, making my teeth ache. Four thousand credits already bid. Perilously close to the limit of what I have left after last season's border skirmishes drained our reserves.

The tentacled merchant beside me shifts, sulfur wafting from his breathing vents. His appendages flash orange. Five thousand.

I should leave. Save what little remains in my territory's coffers for food, repairs, basic defenses. But without the Ward Seed, those defenses mean nothing. Vasek will break through within weeks.

“Six thousand.” The construct near the front raises a mechanical hand.

I cannot match it. Cannot protect what is mine. Failure tastes bitter on my tongue.

Movement at the warehouse entrance draws my attention. The crowd parts. Vasek enters with two guards in matching white armor, their breastplates catching the phosphorescent fungi that lights this place.

He is young for a lord. Maybe three centuries. He walks directly to the auctioneer's platform, whispers something. The auctioneer's face goes gray.

“Ten thousand,” Vasek announces. His eyes find mine across the crowd. “And one copper.”

The insult is clear. He knows I need this. Knows I cannot match him.

It will be one copper more than whatever I could bid, even if I had it.

“Fifteen thousand,” the construct drones.

“Fifteen thousand and one copper.”

The game is obvious now. He will pay anything, just to keep it from me.

“Twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand and one copper.” Vasek does not even look at the Ward Seed. Just watches me with pale eyes that track like ice hunters.

My teeth extend another quarter inch. The ache sharpens, but I keep my lips closed. Violence here means expulsion from the market for a year. He knows this.

“Going once at twenty thousand and one copper,” the auctioneer says. Will not meet my eyes. “Going twice.” He pauses. “Sold to Lord Vasek.”

Vasek approaches the platform to claim his prize. As he passes, he pauses. “Expensive, protecting one's borders.” His voice carries only to me. “Perhaps you should consider alternative arrangements. I could be persuaded to share my protection. For the right price.”

The Bone Orchard. He wants my trees, my fruit, the concentrated pain that takes decades to ripen. I bare my teeth instead of answering.

He smiles, collects the Ward Seed, and disappears into the crowd with his guards.

I should leave. Return to my territory. Shore up what defenses remain. I gesture to my guards, dismissing them to the transport circle to await my return. At least the return journey costs nothing.

But Scratch appears at my elbow, all six eyes blinking in sequence. “Master. You failed to acquire the Seed.”

“Your observational skills remain intact.”

“Lord Vasek will attack within the week.”

“I know.”

The market crier's voice echoes across the warehouse. “Evening bride auction begins in the main hall. Final inspection in ten minutes.”

“We should return home.” Scratch's eyes swivel toward the sound. “Unless you intend to acquire something else?”

“No.”

But my feet move toward the main hall anyway. Information has value. Knowing who buys, what they pay, which territories are wealthy enough for brides—all useful.

The main hall is brighter than the warehouse, lit by strips of moss that crawl across the ceiling. The platform stands four feet high, silver chains at each corner. Decorative now, but the metal is real, the implications clear.

Buyers gather in loose groups. I position myself near the back wall, half in shadow but with clear sightlines. The tentacled merchant is here, talking to something that chimes when it moves. Others I do not recognize—the market draws buyers from far territories.

Three women sell quickly. A weeping young thing to a scaled merchant for eight hundred credits. A fighter to someone with too many arms for two thousand. A drugged beauty to the chiming thing for three thousand.

“Final offering,” the auctioneer announces. “Female. Twenty-six years. Previous medical training. Various skills. Bidding starts at five hundred credits.”

She walks onto the platform without assistance. No tears. No drugs. No defiance either. Just observation.

Chin length brown hair pulled back from a face that would be unremarkable except for the eyes. Dark, almost black, but not empty. Calculating. Her dress is simple, gray, clearly provided by the auction house. She is smaller than the others, maybe five and a half feet.

Then she does something odd.

She presses her thumbnail into her palm. Deliberately. Hard enough that I smell copper across the room. Fresh blood. Not much, just drops, but intentional. Her face does not change. No wince, no relief. Just pressure until blood wells, then release.

She does it again. Different spot. Same pressure.

The crowd shifts, uncomfortable.

But I have stopped breathing because her scent hits me fully as the blood releases into the air.

Honey. Sweet enough to make my mouth water.

Copper from the blood.

And something else. A trace of something other, so faint I almost miss it.

My teeth extend fully. The need in my chest—always there, always gnawing—explodes through my entire body. My cock hardens so fast the pressure is a sharp, demanding ache.

The frenzy.

No. Not now. Not after three centuries of control.

But my body does not care about control. Every cell screams to claim, to feed, to mate. The platform lights make her fully visible—the way she stands, the small scars on her hands, the way she breathes.

Someone starts bidding.

I step forward from the shadows.