Auction
The blindfold crushes against my eyes. Cold iron bites into my wrists, the handcuffs cinched tight enough to grind bone. My heels click against stone as invisible hands guide me forward, the sound swallowed by the murmur of voices that swells around me.
The air tastes of candle wax, perfume and copper. The copper of blood. The copper of hunger.
A palm shoves between my shoulder blades. I stumble. The blindfold rips away.
Light floods my eyes, blinding and harsh. I blink through the burn, vision swimming, and the room resolves in merciless detail.
A stage. I’m on a stage.
Below me, a sea of faces tilts upward. Pale skin gleams in candlelight. Lips curl with hunger. Jewels glitter at their throats. They look like nobility. They look like predators. They look like death.
Twins girls flank me. Their blonde hair swept into perfect victory rolls. Crimson lips frozen in identical smiles. Their dresses are cut high on the thighs, low on the chest. Dolls. Assistants in this theater of horror.
One of them reaches for my dress.
The auctioneer steps forward. A tall man in black, his voice resonant, practiced. He surveys the crowd with cold authority.
“Our first offering of the evening.” His voice rolls through the hall. “The bidding begins at one thousand.”
The dress falls away.
I stand in crimson lingerie. The corset cinches my waist to impossible narrowness. Stockings gleam in the candlelight. Garters glitter. Heels force my body into an arch that emphasizes every curve. I’m a display. A product. A thing.
“Two thousand.”
“Three.”
“Five.”
The twins move in perfect synchronization. One removes my stockings. The other unfastens my garters. Each piece falls away, and the bids climb higher.
“Ten thousand.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twenty.”
The corset falls.
I stand in my bra and panties, skin prickling with cold and shame. The room buzzes with excitement. The bids reach impossible heights.
Two bidders remain.
Cain. His face carved from stone, eyes fixed on me with cold determination.
And another man. He is repulsive—pig features, small eyes gleaming with greed. Sweat slicks his brow. He has brought girls of his own. They kneel at his feet, leather harnesses strapped over their mouths. Horses. He treats them like horses.
My stomach turns.
“Forty thousand.”
“Forty-five.”
“Fifty.”
The twins reach for my bra.
Fingers brush the clasp. The room holds its breath. The fabric loosens, slips.
My bra falls.
I stand bare from the waist up, my wrists bound behind me, unable to cover myself. The room erupts with hungry murmurs. The pig-man’s eyes gleam. He raises his paddle.
“Sixty thousand.”
Cain counters. “Seventy.”
“Eighty.”
“One hundred.”
The twins reach for my panties.
My thighs press together. My bound hands cannot reach the waistband. I cannot stop them.
The room laughs. Cold. Cruel.
“No.” My voice cracks. “Please. Anyone but him.”
The pig-man’s grin widens. He raises his paddle. “One hundred fifty thousand.”
Cain’s jaw tightens. “Two hundred.”
“Two fifty.”
Cain hesitates.
The pig-man leans forward. “Your little protector cannot save you now, girl. I will break you. Train you. Make you beg for scraps. You will crawl through my halls on all fours.”
The twins yank. The fabric tears. I am exposed. Bare. Vulnerable. My last scrap of dignity stripped away.
The room devours me with their eyes.
The auctioneer’s voice cuts through. “Going once to Lord Silas for two hundred fifty thousand.”
I close my eyes.
“Going twice.”
My throat closes. I cannot breathe. Cannot speak.
The pig-man laughs.
And I break.
“Blake!”
The name tears from my throat, raw and desperate. It echoes through the hall, slicing through the murmur of the crowd.
“Blake, please. I need you. Please, I need you now.”
The room goes silent. The twins pause. The crowd stills. The auctioneer’s mouth hangs open.
The pig-man’s grin falters.
“Going—” The auctioneer tries to continue.
“One million.”
The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. Thunderous. Cold. Absolute.
Every head turns toward the corner.
A figure cloaked in darkness, hidden in the shadows.
“One million,” he repeats. “For the girl.”
The auctioneer stammers. “One million to the gentleman in the corner. One million. Going once.”
The room holds its breath.
“Going twice.”
The gavel rises.
“Sold.”
The gavel falls.
I can’t breathe.
The cloaked figure steps forward. His movements are fluid. Predatory. A single candle flickers on the wall beside him, and his face is bathed in light.
I know that face. I have dreamed it every night. I have touched it in the darkness. Kissed it in the void between worlds.
He is here. Flesh and bone and hunger.
Blake.