Chapter Three
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Raine
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Dear god help me. This has to go smoothly. My gaze frantically seeks out Christopher. The encouragement I read in his eyes before is marred by his own nervousness.
We're both so out of our depth; if it weren't so serious, we'd be laughing.
My limbs freeze in place, and I almost stumble forward clumsily. Mrs. Angela gives me a hard look, as if my ungracefulness is a direct reflection on her.
I pull myself together, but my heart continues to pound in my chest so hard that I can barely think straight.
The bidding starts. Christopher, mimicking the other billionaires, raises his index finger.
The plan is simple. Christopher would bid for me, just enough to win the claim—the maximum amount already agreed upon by Joe, the masked man who orchestrated everything on behalf of the unknown mafia boss, the one who told me I was too plain for a billionaire, was right.
No one else laid claim to me. For once, I'm glad I have a forgettable face and zero presence.
But I can't breathe yet. Not until we're in the helicopter, airborne and heading to the compound, the artifact secured in my bag and the billionaires none the wiser.
Not until there's enough distance between me and this place and the mafia boss.
Only then can I let myself exhale, knowing my sister will remain safe.
But the room is unnervingly even more quieter now. Everyone is looking at me. And Christopher is looking at the three billionaires.
I follow Christopher's gaze. My limbs threaten to cave in under me. Mrs. Angela's voice glides through the air around me, the bid increasing each time as each of the three billionaires raises their index finger, as if they're bidding as a collective.
On me.
I stare at the three men who pulled the rug out from under us. They're standing side by side, legs braced apart, one hand each in the pockets of their suit pants. They're not even looking at me. How is this possible?
I wade through the fog in my brain, the numbers so jumbled I can't make head or tail of them, but then they slowly start to form a pattern. Christopher can't bid for me anymore.
He'd already exceeded the amount they'd allocated to a bank account in his name for this purpose. If he can't show the transfer to my account, if Mrs. Angela can't confirm it, the bid will be declared null and void. That's the rule.
He's so stressed out, his eyes bloodshot, and a fine line of perspiration forms on his forehead.
"I just need to make a call to my... investor to secure more funds," Christopher says, panic in his voice as his gaze darts between me and the three billionaires.
"Mr. West, I'm afraid that is not how it works," Mrs. Angela says, her annoyance at Christopher disrupting the proceedings evident in her voice. "You needed to have instant access to your funds to claim a bid. That is the rule."
Alec Mason speaks next. He announces a sum of money that is triple the ongoing bid.
My pulse roars in my ears. What is even happening right now?
This is not how it was meant to go. Joe was dead certain we would walk out of the mountain cabin with the artifact, and no one would know.
He’d assured the mafia boss repeatedly, confident everything would go to plan.
Christopher fumbles as I stare at him pleadingly. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Oh god.
"Sold?" Conrad Reid questions, a killer smile on his face as he prompts Mrs. Angela to close the bid.
"Sold to Alec Mason, Conrad Reid, and Theron Young," she says, but even the straitlaced auctioneer can't hide her confusion at the turn of events.
"And that concludes the auction. Gentlemen, we appreciate your presence. Until next time."
Everyone rises from their seats, their respective virgins on their arms, as they greet their hosts.
They make their way out of the reception room toward the foyer, where the waitstaff had brought down our luggage, ready for collection.
Outside, a line of helicopters awaits to take them off the mountain.
My luggage is there too, and inside it is the Virgin Chalice, the artifact I was meant to steal from the owners of Minotaur Industries. And the helicopter marked with a dragon painted on its side is the one I would have been leaving in with Christopher.
I can't seem to move, not even now that we're the only ones left in the room. Me, Christopher, and three deadly billionaires.
I press my nails into my palm so hard, I wince at the effort. No. This isn't right. I take a step forward. I need to speak to Christopher. We have to find a way out of this cabin, and off this mountain.
"Stay," Alec Mason says. That single word brims with dominance and intent, delivered with a threat that makes my heart tremble.
My legs listen before my brain has a chance to defy them. I stay where I am, my mind running through a hundred thoughts and coming up empty each time.
Do they know what I'd done? Do they know that Christopher and I were working together to steal the Virgin Chalice, a priceless artifact, according to the men who are using us like puppets?
"Perhaps we can come to an agreement," Christopher says, coming toward me, his voice shaky. "Please," he begs, but his path is blocked by Theron Young.
The man is six feet four inches, as are Alec and Conrad, but there's no mistaking his quiet, deadly nature.
I know this about him, because Joe, the consultant in a clown mask, took the trouble to describe each of the billionaires to me in meticulous detail.
As if I needed to be more afraid of them than I already was.
Theron Young comes from a dark bloodline, a family of assassins so skilled in the art of removing someone in their way, it's as if they were born to it. Theron is considered the deadliest in the world right now, and he moves in plain sight, without a care, confident no one will touch him. He doesn’t speak much, he doesn’t need to.
Conrad Reid is a charmer, his bloodline known for infiltrating even the most protected empires from the inside and then taking what they want with no recourse.
Kings would hand over their treasures to the Reid family.
A poor man would give them the shirt off his back.
But beneath all that charisma lies a beast no one wishes to unearth.
Alec Mason is a negotiator, ice-cold and lethal with one word or one look.
People do what he wants out of fear of him; his traitors would sooner put a gun to their own heads than face his level of torture.
His ancestors ruled the world from the underground, and their reputation preceded them in the rest of the world too. No one dares cross Alec Mason.
Minotaur Industries is a conglomeration of their bloodlines. According to Joe, sometimes the people they are dealing with need to be coerced with a smile, other times a single word, and sometimes death is the only answer.
And right now, their attention is fixed on me, burning the bare skin on my shoulders as their gazes rove over me, making my lips ache as they sweep their glance over my mouth, stripping away the layers of my clothes, then seeing me for what I am.
When their eyes lock with mine, I forget how to breathe. My distressed body splinters apart, fear broils in my veins, my stomach clenches, and an unbearable, unfamiliar ache grips the apex between my thighs.
They see who I am.
A thief in the Minotaurs' lair.
How am I going to get out of this alive?