CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The room smells like money.
Old books. Oak. Cigars smoked by men who think they own the world.
It isn’t a stage I am used to this time—but it may as well have been.
A private parlor we are in is tucked deep inside the Warden’s mansion, dressed in shadow and low gold light. The velvet walls mute sound. There is a one-way mirror on the opposite wall where the buyers sit behind. A single chaise in the center.
“Knees,” The Warden firmly says to me.
I kneel on the plush rug, spine straight, head bowed, just as Shoomaker had instructed. The cream negligee clings to me in the chilled air—transparent, weightless, humiliating.
My body looks like an offering.
My mind remains my own.
The door clicks open and a buyer walks in.
Footsteps—calculated, slow. Shoes I don’t recognize.
I don’t look up. Not until instructed.
Another voice joins Shoomaker’s—older, slick with curiosity. “Is this the one?”
“This is the one,” Shoomaker says, voice muffled by the porcelain mask. “She has been in training for almost two months now.”
The buyer circles me. Close enough I can smell the cologne bleeding off his suit—cedar, citrus, something expensive and predatory.
“She doesn’t have a name?” he asks.
“She has multiple names. She answers to whatever I call her.”
The buyer hums. “I like that.”
Then, without asking, he reaches out and touches my hair.
“How trained is she?”
“She’s ready,” Shoomaker says.
“Mind if I test her?”
A long pause.
I feel Shoomaker tense beside me, even through the silence.
“Proceed. Only within boundaries,” he says. “And remember, you are only here as an observer. There is no buying today.”
The buyer steps in front of me and tilts my chin with two fingers. I let him. Eyes still lowered. I know the game.
“She can speak?” He asks.
“She can,” Shoomaker answers. “But only when given permission.”
The man smiles like he’s just won something.
“You have permission, girl,” he murmurs. “Say something sweet.”
I let my lashes lift just a little, my mouth parting.
“I’ll be whatever sugar you need to make this world a little less bitter, sir.”
Soft. Submissive. The voice of a girl who’d been conditioned to survive.
The buyer grins, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip. “Good tongue. Let’s see what else it’s good for.”
His hand reaches for his belt buckle and I freeze.
Shoomaker moves.
Like a fuse has been lit.
He steps between us, blocking me from view, his voice a whip-crack against the velvet walls.
“That’s far enough.”
The buyer blinks. “You said—”
“I said within boundaries,” Shoomaker growls.
His tone has changed. No longer the cool calm of the Warden’s mask. This is real. Protective. Dangerous.
“You don’t touch what belongs to me like that.”
The buyer straightens, indignant. “You parade her in front of us like a toy and expect us not to handle her?”
“She’s not a toy,” Shoomaker snaps. “She’s property. Mine. And if you want time with her, you earn it. You bid—and you follow the fucking rules.”
The man sneers. “Rumor was, you used to share with Mr. Hirsh. I remember that girl. You weren’t so…possessive then. What makes this one different?”
Silence.
Shoomaker doesn’t answer.
Because he can’t.
Because he wasn’t there when Mr. Hirsh and the Warden made the deal. Whatever deal it was they had.
The buyer chuckles darkly. “No worries. I’ll wait until she’s broken all the way in. Unless, of course, you’re open to a test run.”
Shoomaker’s fists flex at his sides.
“You want a challenge, let’s step outside,” he says coldly. “Not in this room. Not with her.”
The buyer raises his hands. “As you wish. But if I’m to place a bid...I want to see her bleed.”
And then he is gone. Just like that.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Shoomaker doesn’t move. His back is still to me. His chest rising and falling with the kind of quiet fury I’d only seen in war films and bad memories.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I continue to stay on my knees. My legs ache. My pride doesn’t.
“I’m fine,” I say.