Chapter 1 #3
Some leaning back in their seats.
Others leaning forward.
All watching.
And then I see him.
Center section. Maybe ten rows back.
He's not leaning forward like the eager ones.
Not leaning back like the bored ones.
He's perfectly still.
Utterly focused.
On me.
Our eyes meet.
Ice blue.
Even from here, even through the stage lights, I can see they're blue.
Unnaturally blue.
The kind of blue that shouldn't exist in human eyes.
He's younger than most of the men here.
Handsome in a way that's almost unsettling.
Perfect. Too perfect.
Dark hair styled precisely.
Strong jaw.
Features that look like they were carved rather than born.
And he's looking at me like—
Like he already owns me.
Not the way Elder Jacob looked at me, with religious entitlement and the surety of God's approval.
Not the way the other men in this room are looking at me, with calculation and assessment and lust.
He's looking at me like he's found something he's been searching for.
Like he's finally, finally found it.
Like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his entire life.
And it terrifies me.
I should look away.
Should drop my gaze.
Should finish my turn and stare at the floor like a good, compliant acquisition.
But I can't.
I'm frozen.
Mid-turn.
Staring back at him.
For a moment—just a moment—something passes between us.
Recognition.
Not like we've met before.
Like something deeper.
Like he sees past the white dress and the virgin label and the catalog listing.
Like he sees me.
The girl who ran.
The girl who survived.
The girl who's still fighting even when fighting seems impossible.
And I see him too.
See the hunger in those ice-blue eyes.
See the absolute control in the way he sits, perfectly still while everyone else shifts and whispers.
See the danger.
This man is dangerous in a way I don't have words for yet.
His lips curve.
Just slightly.
Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
Like he can read every terrified thought racing through my mind.
Like he's already won.
"Continue, please," the auctioneer says.
I tear my gaze away.
Finish the turn.
Face forward again.
But I can still feel his eyes on me.
Can feel the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
Like he's already touching me even though he's ten rows away.
My heart is racing.
I don't know if it's fear or something else.
Something I don't want to name.
Silence.
For a horrible moment, I think no one will bid.
That I'll be the first girl tonight to be rejected, to be sent back to whatever fate awaits the ones nobody wants.
Then—
"One hundred thousand." A voice from the darkness. Older. Somewhere to my left.
Not his voice. Someone else.
Relief and horror flood through me at the same time.
Someone wants me.
Someone is willing to pay for me.
But not him. Not yet.
"One hundred and fifty thousand." Another voice, different section. Younger. Closer to the stage.
The auctioneer's face remains perfectly neutral. "Do I hear two hundred thousand?"
"Two hundred thousand." The older voice again.
"Two hundred and fifty—"
"Five hundred thousand."
The room goes quiet.
Even the auctioneer pauses, her finger hovering over her tablet.
Five hundred thousand.
Someone just jumped the bidding by two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
But it's still not his voice.
I know it's not.
His voice would be different.
Colder. More controlled.
"Five hundred thousand dollars," she repeats, looking out into the audience. "Do I hear—"
"Seven hundred and fifty thousand."
A different voice.
Cold. Precise.
Coming from somewhere in the middle of the theater.
Not him either. But getting closer to that price range. The range where men like him play.
"One million."
The first voice.
The older one.
There's an edge to it now.
Competition. Determination.
My legs are shaking.
I lock my knees, force myself to stand still.
Try not to look at him.
Try not to search the audience for those ice-blue eyes.
But I can feel him watching.
I can feel his gaze like heat on my skin.
"One million five hundred thousand."
"One million eight hundred thousand."
The numbers keep climbing.
Keep spiraling upward.
I've lost track of who's bidding.
Can only stand here while strange men shout amounts into the darkness.
"Two million dollars."
The voice that says it is different from all the others.
Quieter. Calmer. Absolute.
His voice.
I know it's his voice even though I've never heard him speak. Know it the way I knew his eyes were blue before I could see them clearly.
Two million.
He just bid two million dollars.
For me.
The room holds its breath. I hold mine.
"Two million dollars," the auctioneer says, and there's something in her voice now. Surprise. Respect. "Do I hear—"
Silence.
No one speaks. No one raises a paddle.
He won.
Of course he won.
"Going once."
My heart is hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
"Going twice."
This is it.
This is happening.
The man with ice-blue eyes just bought me for two million dollars, and I don't even know his name.
"Sold to bidder twenty-seven for two million dollars."
Applause.
Polite, refined applause.
Like I've just performed a piano concerto instead of being sold like livestock.
Some of the men are standing.
A standing ovation for a successful transaction.
I'm going to be sick.
"Remain on stage," the auctioneer instructs me.
I stand there, rooted, while the clapping fades.
The lights are still too bright.
But I know where he is now.
Center section. Ten rows back.
Watching me.
Always watching me.
Footsteps on the stage.
Margaret appears with her tablet and a man in an expensive suit—handler for the buyer, I assume.
They exchange words I can't hear over the rushing in my ears.
The man in the suit signs something on Margaret's tablet.
She nods, smiles, and shakes his hand like they've just closed a normal business deal.
"Come," Margaret says to me, and there's something different in her voice now.
Respect? No. Deference.
To the price I just brought.
To the value I represent.
Two million dollars.
I follow her off stage, through a different door than the one I entered.
We're in another hallway now, this one quieter, less opulent.
Service corridor. Plain walls. Utilitarian lighting.
"This way," the man in the suit says. His voice is clipped. British. Professional. "Mr. Sutherland is waiting."
Sutherland. My buyer has a name.
Mr. Sutherland, who just spent two million dollars on me.
Who outbid everyone else in that room.
Who wanted me enough to pay more than most people will earn in their entire lives.
Mr. Sutherland with the ice-blue eyes.
We walk through a maze of corridors.
Turn left, then right, then left again.
I lose track.
I couldn't find my way back to the theater if I tried.
The British man—his handler, his employee, whatever he is—doesn't speak.
Just leads us deeper into the mansion.
Finally, we reach a door. Heavy wood. Brass handle.
He opens it.
"Wait here," he says, gesturing for me to enter. "Mr. Sutherland will join you shortly."
I step inside because what choice do I have?
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
I'm alone.
For the first time in hours, I'm alone.
The room is small.
Elegant.
A sitting room, maybe. Or a study.
There's a fireplace with a real fire burning, flames dancing over split logs.
Two leather armchairs.
A small table between them with a crystal decanter and two glasses.
Windows looking out onto darkness.
I go to the windows and press my forehead against the cold glass.
Below, I can see the edge of the island, the dock where boats are moored.
The mansion sits on a cliff.
Water surrounds us on all sides.
Dark water that reflects the lights from the house, making everything look like it's floating in space.
So close. The boats are so close.
I could run.
Right now.
Could try to find a way down to that dock, could steal a boat, could—
Could what?
I don't know how to drive a boat.
Don't know where I am.
Don't know which direction land is or how far.
And even if I made it, even if I somehow escaped this island, where would I go?
I have no money.
No identification.
Nothing but this white dress and bare feet.
Sarah's men would find me.
Or the police would find me.
Either way, I'd end up back here.
Or somewhere worse.
I'm trapped.
The realization settles over me like a weight.
I'm trapped, and there's no way out, and in a few minutes a man named Sutherland is going to walk through that door and I belong to him.
Two million dollars worth of belonging.
My hands are shaking again.
I press them flat against the window, trying to absorb some of the cold.
Trying to feel something other than this panic clawing up my throat.
At the Sanctuary, I knew what was expected.
Submission. Obedience.
A lifetime of cooking and cleaning and eventually bearing children for Elder Jacob.
It was horrifying, but at least it was known.
This? I don't know what this is. Don't know what happens next.
Don't know if Mr. Sutherland bought me for labor or companionship or sex or all three.
Don't know if he'll be kind or cruel or indifferent.
Don't know anything except that I cost two million dollars and someone thought I was worth it.
The door opens behind me.
I don't turn around.
I can't.
I keep my forehead pressed against the cold glass, my hands flat against the window, looking out at the boats I'll never reach.
"Eden."
My name.
He says my name like he knows me.
Like we're familiar.
Like he's been saying my name in his head for hours.
I take a breath and force myself to turn around.
A man stands in the doorway.
Tall.
Well over six feet.
The kind of tall that makes you feel small even when you're across the room.
The dark suit that fits him like it was made for his body specifically, because it probably was.
Every line perfect. Every detail exact.
Dark hair.
Dark at first glance, but as he steps into the firelight, I see it's actually brown.
Deep brown. Styled precisely. Not a hair out of place.
And his eyes—
His eyes are exactly as I remember from the stage.
Ice blue. Unnatural. Beautiful and terrifying.
He's beautiful.
That's the first thing my brain processes.
He's beautiful in the way predators are beautiful.
Sharp lines. Perfect proportions. Symmetrical features that look like they were designed rather than grown.
The kind of face that belongs in museums or on movie screens.
Mid-thirties, maybe.
Young to have the kind of money he must have.
Young to be here, bidding millions on human beings.
Young enough that this should feel different somehow, but it doesn't.
He's looking at me like he did from the audience.
Like he's memorizing every detail.
Like he's cataloging me.
His gaze moves over my face, my hair, my body in the white dress.
Not sexual, exactly.
More like assessment.
Like he's making sure he got what he paid for.
Making sure I'm worth two million dollars.
I should look away.
At the Sanctuary, we were never allowed to look men in the eyes.
It was considered forward.
Immodest. Challenging.
But I'm so tired of looking down.
So, I hold his gaze.
"My name is Vaughn Sutherland," he says.
His voice matches his appearance.
Smooth. Controlled. Expensive.
The kind of voice that's used to being obeyed.
The kind of voice that doesn't need to be raised to make people listen.
He takes a step closer.
Then another.
He moves like he owns the room.
Like he owns everything in it.
Including me.
"You belong to me now."
Not: I bought you.
Not: we have a contract.
You belong to me.
Like I'm a thing.
An object.
A possession to be claimed.
Something hot and sharp rises in my chest.
Anger.
After everything—after the Sanctuary and Father Thomas and Elder Jacob and Sarah's betrayal and the warehouse and the auction and being sold like livestock—after all of that, this man thinks he can just claim me?
I should be terrified.
Should be screaming, crying, begging.
That's what number thirteen did, and look how well that turned out for her.
But I'm so tired of being afraid.
So tired of being owned by men who think they have the right.
I ran from the Sanctuary.
I survived Sarah's warehouse.
I stood on that stage and let strange men bid on my body.
I won't break for Vaughn Sutherland.
Not without a fight.
So instead, I straighten my spine.
Lift my chin.
Look him directly in those ice-blue eyes—the eyes that probably cost two million dollars to own—and I say:
"My name is Eden Finch. And I don't belong to anyone."
For a moment, he doesn't react.
Just watches me with those unsettling eyes.
Studies me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
Then his mouth curves.
Not quite a smile.
Something more dangerous than a smile.
Something that makes my stomach drop and my pulse spike, and every survival instinct I have starts screaming.
"We'll see about that," he says.
And despite every part of me that knows I should look away, should submit, should make myself small and unthreatening, I hold his gaze.
Because I escaped one cage.
I ran through a storm in the middle of the night with nothing but four hundred stolen dollars and the clothes on my back.
I survived being drugged and trafficked and sold.
I survived the Sanctuary.
I'll survive Vaughn Sutherland too.
Even if I have no idea how.
Even if those ice-blue eyes promise that survival might look very different than I expect.
Even if some small, terrifying part of me wonders what it would feel like to belong to someone who looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.