Chapter 2
THEA
The lights are too damn bright.
That's the first thing I notice as the door snaps shut behind us and a shove between my shoulder blades sends me stumbling forward into white-hot glare. The world beyond the stage edge disappears into shadow.
My heel catches on a low lip. I flail, barely catching myself.
I spend what feels like eternity trying to get my heel unjammed.
Perfect. I’m going to die because of bad men and worse footwear.
"Thea?" Sylvie's voice hits my back. She bumps into my side, grabbing for my arm. "What the hell. This isn't the bathroom."
"Yeah," I say tightly. "I noticed."
A mic pops and crackles, the sound booming around us. The stage lights make my eyes ache.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a smooth voice purrs, "welcome to tonight's main event."
Mick.
Of course.
My stomach drops.
I squint past the glare, trying to see him. As my vision adjusts, the room takes shape: round tables, men in suits, some with women draped over their arms. Shadows cut their faces, but their eyes catch the light. Flat, interested, cold.
Not the bar crowd.
The Belvedere had three floors guests never saw. Private gaming rooms. Off-book elevators. Events that didn’t appear on any schedule unless your name was worth more than the building.
I’d cleaned around those floors for two years and still didn’t know what happened behind half the doors. Now I did.
Buyers.
"Two very special lots for you tonight," Mick says. "Fresh, pretty, and very eager to please."
"Like hell," I mutter.
Sylvie's fingers dig into my arm. "These men," she breathes. "Thea, I recognize one of them from the papers. He's connected."
"I know," I say. "Don't look at them. Look at me."
I try to back us toward the door we came through.
A hand lands on my shoulder. Big, heavy, warning.
"Don't," a deep voice growls in my ear. "You don't want to turn your back on this room."
"I don't want to be in this room," I snap, shrugging against his grip.
He nudges me forward anyway.
I catch myself after one step.
No.
If they’re going to put me on display, they are not getting me hunched and shaking.
I straighten.
I’ve spent years being invisible. Head down. Uniform on. Quick, quiet, forgettable.
I’ve spent my whole life shrinking, pulling my shoulders in, folding myself smaller so other people could feel comfortable taking up space.
Not tonight.
Tonight, there’s nowhere left to hide.
Fine.
Let them look.
I walk into the full wash of light with my chin up and my spine locked, every furious inch of me refusing to fold.
The room’s attention slams into me at once.
Shit.
"And we'll start with this one," Mick says cheerfully, strolling toward me. He gestures like a game show host displaying a prize. "Twenty-five. Healthy. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Curves in all the right places, gentlemen. Trust me."
He winks.
My skin crawls.
I take a step toward him. "Call this off, Mick. Now. This is illegal, and I swear to God"
"Let's start the bidding," he says, talking clean over me. "And please, gentlemen, don't insult me. This is a prime asset."
The rage that blasts through me is almost enough to drown out the fear.
"I am not an asset," I bite out.
"You are tonight," the man behind me murmurs.
"Fifty thousand," someone calls from the dark.
My head snaps toward the sound.
They're actually doing this. This is real.
"Fifty?" Mick laughs like they're haggling over a painting, not a person. "Come on, boys. Look at her. Hips, ass, all that dedication to housekeeping. She's worth more than that."
"Seventy-five," a voice to the left. Russian, if the accent is anything to go by.
"One hundred," another man cuts in, clipped and annoyed.
Numbers keep climbing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sylvie being held just off-center stage by another man in a suit, her dress riding up as she struggles. She's furious.
"Thea," she hisses. "What do we do?"
I don't know.
But I know what I'm not doing. I'm not going quietly.
"Mick, you slimy bastard," I snarl. "People know where we are. Cameras exist. You are not getting away with"
"Security has the cameras," he says lightly, not even turning my way. "One twenty-five."
My blood runs cold.
"And security works for them," he adds, motioning to the men in the room.
"Two hundred," from the back.
"Two fifty."
My grip tightens on my own forearms, like I can hold myself together through sheer stubbornness.
On reflex, I scan faces in the shadows. Some are half-hidden. Some don't care if I see them. A few tables have women at them, glossy and smiling, watching like this is high-end entertainment.
Like this is normal.
I memorize what I can.
Red tie, front left. Scar over eyebrow, back table. Woman in emerald earrings, laughing like I’m the entertainment.
If I get out of here, I am taking names.
"Three hundred," someone calls.
"Three fifty."
I swallow the bile rising in my throat.
Then a chair scrapes.
A man stands.
He doesn't shout his bid. He doesn't have to. The room goes quiet on contact.
I see him in pieces first.
The same expensive black suit that fits like it was sewn onto his body.
The broad shoulders. The silver at his temples. The dark eyes that had tracked me from the bar.
Gabriel Moretti.
"One million dollars," he says.
The air seems to suck out of the room.
Mick's smile falters. A guy at a front table jolts upright, phone in his hand, muttering in rapid-fire Russian. A woman next to him clamps her fingers around his wrist.
"Mr. Moretti," Mick says, suddenly very careful. "That's a most generous"
"It's not generous," Gabriel says. "And it's not an offer."
He's not looking at Mick.
He's looking at me.
His gaze hits like a hand around my throat.
Claiming.
I lift my chin before I can stop myself.
If he expects gratitude, he is going to be disappointed.
The Russian with the phone stands so fast his chair rocks.
"Do not close the bidding," he snaps. "I must call my boss."
Kolya Sokolov's man, my brain whispers. The name is a rumor around the Belvedere, a shadow on certain guest lists.
Gabriel doesn't even glance his way.
"No," he says.
The denial is absolute.
He steps forward, walking down the gap between tables with the kind of careful, lethal calm that makes everyone sit up straighter.
"You're going to let me take her," he tells Mick.
"Mr. Moretti, with respect, Sokolov's representative is trying to…"
"I don't care what Sokolov's representative is trying to do," Gabriel says. He's close enough now that I can see the coiled tension in his jaw, the control in his shoulders. "If you want to leave this room upright, you're going to hand her over. One million. Now."
Silence slams down.
For a second, I think Mick might actually test him.
Then I realize Mick isn't that stupid.
"Sold," he says, voice thin.
Gabriel steps up onto the stage like he owns the ground.
He comes straight to me.
I take a step back. The man behind me finally lets go, but I only move as far as Gabriel's hand allows when his fingers wrap around my wrist.
His grip is firm.
Warm.
Unyielding.
"Don't touch me," I snap, yanking against it.
"You’re coming with me," he says.
"Thea!" Sylvie's shout cuts across everything.
I twist, heart lurching.
She's being hauled toward the other side of the stage, heels scraping against the wood, eyes wild. The Russian with the phone has moved closer, his gaze locked on her like a man who just saw his consolation prize.
"Two hundred thousand for the brunette," he says into the mic someone thrust into his hand.
"No." The word rips out of me. I lunge toward Sylvie, but Gabriel's arm comes around my waist, iron band dragging me back against him.
"It's too late for her," he says.
"Like hell it is." I slam my elbow back into his ribs. It's like hitting a wall. "You got your million-dollar maid. Let me get my friend."
His mouth comes close to my ear, his voice low and lethal.
"You don't understand where you are," he says. "Or who you're between."
"I understand enough," I snarl. "You're all monsters."
His chest moves against my back, one short, dark laugh.
"Monsters are the only thing keeping you out of the ground, Thea."
He shouldn't know my name.
But he does.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
"The only man in this room who paid to keep you breathing instead of making you disappear," he says.
He releases my waist only to slide his hand down, twine our fingers together. It looks obscene, how normal it is. Like a boyfriend leading his girl offstage after karaoke, not a buyer dragging his purchase away from the block.
"Walk," he orders.
I dig my heels in. "Go to hell."
He squeezes my hand once. Not cruel. Not kind.
"If you keep fighting me here, you'll get there a lot faster."
Sylvie's voice cracks again behind us. "Thea!"
The sound tears me in half.
I twist for one last look.
She's almost gone, swallowed by the shadows at the side of the stage, still kicking, still clawing at the hands on her.
"I'll find you!" I shout.
My eyes burn.
I blink the tears back. I can cry later. I can break later.
Right now, I take the one thing I can steal from this room:
I walk down those steps like I chose it.
Head up. Spine straight.
I look at every man who bought a ticket to my nightmare and make sure they see my face.
Not because I want them to remember me.
Because someday, I want to remember them.