Sold to Her Mate (Bellefleur Black Ops Wolves #4)
Chapter 1 - Cora
The cold bite of the ropes cut into her skin, pulling Cora from the fog of unconsciousness.
Her wrists throbbed, and it took her a few agonizing seconds to realize they were tightly bound together, and her ankles burned where the same rough cord held her immobile.
It wasn’t the discomfort that made her heart race, though.
It was the sinking, terrifying realization that she couldn’t feel her magic.
Panic made her heart lurch as she reached for it, mentally grasping for the energy that always tingled beneath her skin. It wasn’t there. Instead, there was a hollow emptiness where her power should have been as if it had been ripped away entirely.
She sank inward, searching for the presence that had always been there, buried deep in her core. Her magic was part of her very essence. But now, as her spirit reached out, there was nothing.
Her heart clenched as she tried again, more desperately this time. “Come on,” she muttered. “Where are you?”
Silence.
It was like being alone in a vast, empty void. It was as though a limb had been severed. The ropes weren’t just keeping her bound—they were suppressing everything she was. Frustration burned through her fear. She couldn’t afford to lose herself to despair. Not here. Not now.
Her eyes snapped open. The room was dark and unfamiliar, and the faint smell of damp wood and metal pressed around her. Shadows stretched across the rough wooden walls. A faint glow of light seeping under the door was the only thing breaking the blackness.
The room was small—claustrophobic—and empty except for the chair she was bound to and a single table pushed against the far wall.
The table’s surface was littered with ominous shapes she couldn’t make out in the low light.
The floor beneath her was covered in old, uneven planks that were warped and splintered.
A faint drip echoed from somewhere above, and each drop served as a cruel reminder of how trapped she was.
She inhaled deeply, and her nose twitched as she caught the scent of something else beneath the damp and metal—a faint trace of sweat and musk. Someone had been here recently.
Her pulse quickened as her gaze darted around the room, searching for anything, any detail she could use to her advantage. But there was nothing—just four walls and the creeping sense that she was entirely alone.
She tugged at the ropes experimentally, and it took her all but two seconds to realize they were enchanted. She didn’t need to see the faint shimmer woven through the fibers to know. It was like a cold snake coiled around her, keeping her powers firmly locked away.
Her mind tripped over itself for a second, trying to make sense of where she was and how she’d gotten here.
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the memories to come.
Laila’s bakery. She’d been working late—so late that she’d teased herself for being the last witch in Bellefleur to leave a light on.
She’d locked up, stepped out into the quiet street…
And then?
Nothing.
Her chest burned as hysteria clawed its way up her throat. No. She wasn’t the kind of person who lost control—she’d survived too much for that. Cora convinced herself to breathe, to focus on the rhythmic scrape of her nails against the ropes, grounding herself in the tactile motion.
She squinted at the single iron door that was set into the far wall. The hinges were rusted, and faint voices carried through the gaps where the metal didn’t quite meet the frame. She strained to hear, angling her head toward the sound.
“…witch this time,” one voice grumbled, low and rough like gravel dragged across the stone. “Boss says they go for more.”
“She’s a scrawny thing,” a second voice shot back. This one was lighter, with a sneer audible even through the barrier. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“Doesn’t matter what you see,” the first replied. “She’s got the magic, and that’s all they care about. Better for us, anyway. Easier to handle.”
Cora’s stomach flipped. Her first instinct was to scream, to demand answers, and curse whoever had done this to her. But she clenched her jaw shut, holding back the rage boiling under her skin. If they thought she was weak, then she’d use that. Let them underestimate her.
The voices outside grew louder as if the men were moving closer.
“You think she’ll put up a fight?”
A boisterous laugh followed. “They always do at first. Don’t worry. The ropes will hold her until the auction. After that, she’s someone else’s problem.”
Auction.
The word landed right in her core, robbing her of air.
Cora’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of their conversation.
Bride auctions weren’t new—they were whispered about in the darkest corners of Bellefleur.
She’d never paid attention, though. They were urban legends.
Horror stories used to scare young witches and shifters into being careful.
But this was no story.
Her eyes remained fixed on the door as if sheer willpower could burn through the metal and reveal the monsters on the other side. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood, desperate to stop the tears threatening to spill. Crying wouldn’t help. Panic wouldn’t help.
Instead, she focused on the ropes again, testing their give. Her fingers flexed, searching for a knot she could try to loosen.
“Think the buyers will come through this time?”
The first voice grunted. “They’ll come. They always do. Just gotta keep her in one piece until then.”
The second man chuckled. “Not too bad looking, either. Maybe I should—”
“You want your hands broken. You go ahead and try,” the first interrupted. “Boss said no one touches her until the deal’s done. You know the rules.”
“Yeah, yeah.” There was a shuffling sound, and the second voice grew fainter. “Still. Waste of a good—”
The rest of his sentence faded into the background as Cora’s pulse hammered in her ears.
They were selling her. Not as a person or a witch but as some…
commodity. Her jaw clenched so tightly that her teeth ached, and she focused on steadying her breathing.
Anger she could use, but not if it overwhelmed her.
She tugged at the ropes again, this time with more force. Her skin scraped against the rough fibers, and a hiss escaped her as the pain flared. Blood slicked her wrists, making the knots slippery, but it wasn’t enough to loosen them.
The door rattled, and the faint sound made her heart stop.
“Damn thing always sticks,” the second man muttered. The rattling grew louder as he yanked on the handle.
Cora stilled and pressed the back of her hands against her back to stop their movement. Every muscle locked in place as she forced herself to listen, straining to pick up on the men’s movements.
“Leave it,” the first voice said. “Boss said she stays put. You wanna piss him off, go ahead and break protocol.”
“Whatever,” the second snapped.
The rattling stopped, and footsteps retreated into the distance.
Cora let out a shaky exhale as she sagged against the chair. Her thoughts tumbled over themselves, each more frantic than the last. She’d been taken from the one place she’d felt safe, and now she was nothing more than a pawn in someone else’s game.
But she wasn’t powerless. Not entirely.
Cora’s wrists burned, and the rough fibers of the ropes bit deeper with every desperate pull.
Her hands were slick with blood now, but she kept twisting, kept yanking.
The metallic scent of her own sweat and coppery blood filled her nostrils, blending with the stale air of the dim, featureless room. She couldn’t stop.
“Come on,” she pleaded, her voice cracking from the effort.
Her movements were frantic, and each tug sent fresh pain shooting up her arms. Without her magic, she was stuck—bound, powerless, and entirely at their mercy.
More voices coming from outside the door made her still, and she sucked in a breath.
“She still tied up?” one voice asked.
“She’s not going anywhere,” came the reply. “Those ropes could hold a dragon. Witch or not, she’s stuck.”
Cora’s stomach turned at their casual tone. They spoke as if she were an object, something to be restrained and displayed. She pressed her feet harder against the ground, trying to shift the chair. Every scrape of wood against the floor felt impossibly loud.
“Buyers’ll be here soon,” the gruff voice added. “Better make sure she’s still pretty.”
The second man laughed. “Don’t worry. The magic’ll keep her in line. No scratches, no burns. Boss thought of everything.”
Her heart pounded as the door creaked open.
“Well, well,” said a tall, wiry man, his voice curling with delight. He stepped inside, sporting a grin sharp as a blade. “Looks like someone’s been busy.”
Cora glared at him, using her defiance to mask the fear swirling in her chest. “Untie me.”
The wiry man crouched and made no effort to hide his lust as he looked her over. “Feisty, huh? I like that. Makes it more fun.”
“You won’t like it when I get free,” she snapped, trying to lunch at him.
The man jumped back for a second before chucking and leaning closer. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re not in charge here.”
“Back off,” she growled, twisting her arms against the ropes.
“Enough,” ordered the second man. He stepped into the room, towering over the wiry one. His face was set in a scowl so severe it looked carved from stone.
“Boss said no trouble,” the taller man added as his gaze flicked to Cora’s wrists.
“Trouble?” the first man repeated, laughing. “This little thing? She’s not going anywhere.”
Cora didn’t wait for them to decide her next move. She yanked hard against the ropes, ignoring the pain and the trickle of blood that followed.
“Look at her go,” the first one taunted. “What’s the plan, sweetheart? You think you’re getting out of this?”
She didn’t answer. She just glared at him with so much hatred that it made her skin burn.
The taller man sighed and gestured toward her. “Enough. Get her up. Boss wants her on stage.”
“Stage?” Cora’s heart skipped. “No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The wiry man grabbed her arm, yanking her upright. She twisted violently, kicking out with her legs. Her bare foot connected with his shin, and he hissed as he released her to grab at the injury.
“Damn it!” he snarled. “Hold still, you little—”
“Move,” the taller man interrupted, shoving the wiry one aside. He gripped her wrists with hands like iron, hauling her to her feet as if she weighed nothing.
“Let me go!” Cora shouted.
Neither man responded. They dragged her toward the door with her feet skidding across the floorboards.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” the taller man muttered.
“Good,” Cora spat, jerking her arms in a futile attempt to free herself.
The hallway beyond the door was oppressively narrow, the kind that made her shoulders tense instinctively as if the walls might close in. At the far end, flickering torchlight danced erratically, highlighting the warped wooden planks of the floor and the chipped, peeling walls.
“Buyers’ll love this one,” one of the men said, almost gleeful. “She’s got fire. That always gets the bids rolling.”
“You’ll regret this,” she spat at him.
He smirked. “If you say so, Princess.”
They rounded a corner, and distant voices roared as they entered a cavernous room with high ceilings that amplified the crowd's noise.
The space was packed with people. Some leaned against the walls, chatting casually as if they were at a market. Others clustered closer to the center, where a crude wooden stage rose above the crowd.
Cora’s heart raced as her captors dragged her closer to the platform. The stage loomed over her with wobbly planks that were stained with something dark she didn’t want to name.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
The wiry man grinned. “Oh, yes. Welcome to the main event.”
She kicked out again, twisting and thrashing with all the strength she could muster. Her bare heel connected with the taller man’s knee this time, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Enough,” he growled, hauling her up the stairs.
The planks creaked under their combined weight, and each step sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through her. By the time they reached the top, Cora’s legs were trembling so badly she could barely stand.
“Stand up straight,” the taller man ordered, shoving her forward.
The crowd erupted into cheers as she stumbled onto the stage. Dozens of faces stared up at her, their expressions ranging from curious to predatory.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice boomed, cutting through the noise.
Cora flinched as the announcer stepped forward in a sharp suit and slicked-back hair, a jarring contrast to the grimy setting.
“Tonight, we have something truly special for you,” he declared in a voice that was dripping with charisma. “A witch from Bellefleur. Rare. Untouched. Pure power, ready to be claimed.”
The crowd roared so loud that their cheers were deafening.
“Bound and sealed,” the announcer continued, gesturing to the ropes around her wrists. “Her magic locked away, waiting for the right owner to unleash it. The perfect balance of control and potential.”
Cora’s fists curled until her nails bit into her palms.
“And look at her,” the announcer added. “A vision of strength and beauty. But don’t let her looks fool you—this one’s got fire.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and her stomach churned.
“Shall we begin?” the announcer called with his arms outstretched.
The crowd erupted again, and their excitement drowned out Cora’s ragged breathing. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she looked out over the sea of faces. This was it.