Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Ivan
I didn't plan on buying anyone.
That's what I thought before she showed up.
Girls came and went on that stage—some crying, some laughing, some biting their lips to hold it together. They were like a tank full of fish floating belly-up, waiting for someone to scoop them out and toss them into the next bed.
I'd seen too many. I'd gone numb. Sitting there, my mind was still on Sergei's overreaching hands and whether I should chop them off.
"Six hundred thousand!"
I looked up.
The spotlight swallowed her whole, so bright it nearly erased her. She squinted against it like a cat caught in a flashlight beam. But it only lasted a second. She opened her eyes and said it again, clear into the mic. "Six hundred thousand!"
The room went silent. Two seconds later, the loudest laugh I'd heard all year exploded through the crowd.
I watched her.
Thin. Pale. Wearing a dress that barely covered what it needed to, like a fish thrown on a cutting board—but one that still tried to bite.
She stood under that spotlight, forcing herself to stay calm, not knowing that dress hid nothing.
Not her collarbones. Not her knees. And definitely not the fear bleeding through every crack.
Her lashes were trembling, but she didn't look away.
The kitten had no idea that kind of defiance only made people want to tear her apart.
I could've looked away. But I didn't.
My heart skipped a beat without warning, and then—
My pants got tight.
I was hard.
For a stranger on an auction stage. For a kitten who had no clue what she was doing.
I wanted to push it down, get a grip, but it was hard. Every few seconds, her fear, her fake composure, crashed back into my head like a splinter stuck in my thumb—not painful, but impossible to shake.
What the hell was wrong with me?
After Victoria, I'd stopped trusting women. All they wanted was my position. They lied with ease, sweet-talked you into believing them, then turned around and denied everything. I was done with that game. All I wanted was to raise Nadia.
Yeah, women were cunning creatures. I shouldn't trust her. She was just a toy pushed out by the sellers, a new sales tactic. For all I knew, she was already scheming how to drain my wallet dry.
But I was still hard.
I picked up my champagne glass. The glass was cool against my palm. But the fire didn't go out—it burned hotter.
Six hundred thousand. Not much.
I raised my hand. My bidding paddle went up.
The room fell silent for a beat. The host's voice cracked, every word sounding like it was being squeezed out of a strangled throat. "S-six hundred thousand! Sold!"
She probably couldn't believe it either—that someone would pay six hundred thousand for a club girl.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her through the noise and chaos.
She stood on that stage, confusion written all over her face, until a staff member led her away.
For a moment, I could feel her bewilderment, like a baby animal dragged out of its familiar cage, not even knowing where to put her feet.
I picked up the drink again. Most of the ice had melted. Didn't taste great.
My assistant Dmitri leaned over, grinning knowingly. "Bro, how long's it been since you touched a woman? You good?"
Am I good?
Was he joking? He was absolutely insulting me. He had no idea there was a raging beast inside me right now, thrashing around ever since she opened her mouth and said six hundred thousand.
I ignored him and followed a staff member's signal toward the room—where my high-priced prey was waiting.
The hallway was long, wall sconces spaced far apart, light breaking into fragments at my feet.
Cold air poured in from the far end, pressing down the fire churning in my chest. I pulled out my cigarette case, lit one, and let it hang from my lips.
The nicotine sank down my throat, but that splinter in my thumb was still there, brushing against my nerves.
I pushed the door open, almost impatient.
Unexpectedly, no surprise. No tears either.
She stood by the window, pushing it open, looking down to gauge the distance to the ground. The wind lifted her hair—honey-gold strands floating in the dim light, blindingly bright. The high-rise night view floated in her pupils, reflecting the city's glowing contours.
Oh, was she going to jump?
Took sixty thousand and still wanted to run.
I leaned against the door, smiling, flicking ash onto the carpet where it quickly died. "If you want to jump, I won't stop you. Just so you know, this building's thirteen floors. Jump and your brains'll splatter on the pavement."
It sounded like helpful advice, but only I knew—I was threatening her on purpose.
Live, or die?
She turned and looked at me.
After two seconds of silence, she closed the window, turned around, and said softly, "Sir, you misunderstood. I value my life very much."
I thought she'd cry. Shake. But she just closed the window.
Value her life.
She said it, and I was shocked. In our line of work, your head's always on the line—valuing your life is priority one. But for a young girl to be that clear-headed?
That dark little thought stirred in me again. I wanted to make her cry. Wanted to see her tears, her struggle, wanted to see if she could keep that composure.
I stubbed the cigarette out in a glass of water sitting on the entryway table. It hissed, releasing a faint wisp of white smoke.
I took two more steps in and loosened my tie. "Then do what you're supposed to do."
Almost instantly, the air went tight. She stumbled back half a step, shifting from calm to alert. "No, you misunderstood, I'm not—"
I didn't wait for her to finish. I pinned her to the bed while she screamed.
Her body was so soft, like warm silk. Even through that thin fabric I could feel the heat of her skin, her nipples stiffening under the stimulation, brushing against my palm through her dress.
I swear I only meant to tease her, but the moment I pressed her down, my legendary self-control crumbled.
Devour her.
The voice in my head screamed, almost breaking through my skull.
Her shoulders were so delicate they'd snap in half. That barely-there dress tore to pieces in my hands. Small whimpers leaked from her throat, then she bit her lip, refusing to cry out.
She didn't know—that was far more tempting than screaming.
I loosened my grip on her wrists without thinking. Her hair smelled clean and faint, mixed with the lingering smoke on me, tangling together until my head felt heavy.
Forcing a woman wasn't something I should do. But controlling my desire for her was harder than clawing my way to the top of the underworld.
In that split second of distraction, her hand broke free and grabbed the ashtray, swinging it at me.
Muscle memory made me catch her wrist instantly. The glass ashtray crashed onto the hardwood floor with a dull thud, glass shards scattering everywhere.
I pinned her wrist and pressed her back down.
She trembled with panic, the corners of her eyes red like rain-soaked roses, those beautiful eyes filled with stubborn hatred, staring straight at me.
Like a wild cat pinned down, ready to pounce again any second.
I was a pervert.
I got even harder.
"Wildcat, put your claws away!" I growled. "If you didn't want this, you shouldn't be selling yourself."
Her jaw tightened for a moment, then she looked down.
"That's not it." Her voice was low, hurt. "I was forced."
That was normal. Fathers, boyfriends, creditors... they shoved these girls into clubs like throwing out a bag of trash, as long as it brought cash.
She stopped struggling. Her shoulders sagged, like a small animal with its bones pulled out. The corners of her eyes were still red, a trace of moisture clinging to her lashes.
Something stabbed at my chest. I rolled off and lay beside her.
She froze. Didn't dare move.
"So tell me then. What's your name, and why are you here?"
She was quiet for two seconds, like she was counting her breaths.
"My name is Anna Bennett. I'm a student about to graduate."
I propped my head up, looking at her. Small frame, breasts just big enough to fit in one palm, skin white as a freshly peeled hard-boiled egg. She lay next to me, thin as paper, even her breathing carried a faint tremor.
She was the best drug. Just talking to her, and my craving came rushing back.
"Go on."
"My father had me taken away against my will and forced me to be auctioned off my... virginity."
She paused. That one word lingered on her lips for a long time, like a jagged stone she could neither swallow nor spit out.
She was a first-timer.
Oh, right. Her words reminded me of the host's exaggerated tone onstage—she was a virgin. But faking it was common in these places. They'd craft custom Barbie dolls based on the boss's particular kinks.
But I believed her. No reason why.
"So what are you going to do now?" I asked.
She took a deep breath, like she was making up her mind. "I know I can't escape, but could you please be gentle? I'm scared."
She looked like a soldier marching bravely to her death. I had to laugh.
A six-hundred-thousand-dollar prize, lying in my bed, asking me to be gentle. This was ridiculous.
I forced down the rage. "Anna, grown men don't force women."
Her lashes lifted. She looked at me, confused.
Then she rolled over. Her fingers brushed my rigid forearm—so light, yet it made my entire back go tense.
"Sir, but you're not calm right now."
God, how could she ask that in such an innocent tone?
Of course I wasn't calm. I wanted to pin her down and fuck her to death.
I took deep breaths, over and over, pushing down the fire, and slowly got up.
She gasped in surprise and sat up too. "Sir, where are you going?"
"To do the grown-up thing."
I walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the shower. The water was warm, running down my shoulder blades, but the fire was still there. It wasn't washed away—just temporarily drowned out by the sound of water.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the tile, my head full of the way her eyes had reddened. I cursed under my breath, wrapped both hands around my cock, and started moving up and down.
The cold tile pressed against my burning spine. I tilted my head back, my Adam's apple rolling, my breathing getting rougher in the steam.
She was so small—if I actually fucked her, she'd cry, wouldn't she?
Thinking of her tears, those lashes trembling like windblown butterfly wings, the beast in my hand throbbed twice more.
The feeling was like being flipped by a riptide—I didn't have time to steady myself before I was dragged into deeper currents.
Anna. Anna.
I didn't want to admit it, but the truth was this woman I'd only met once had me hooked, every single second.
Then I heard a noise outside the door.
I turned my head. Through the frosted glass, I made out her silhouette.
That blurry outline was leaning against the bathroom door, slowly sinking down.
I couldn't see her movements clearly, but I knew—she was touching herself. Her breasts. Pinching. Squeezing.
In that instant, my eyes lit up. I even stopped breathing.
Turns out, the wildcat didn't just attack people. She touched herself too.