Chapter three
Valentina
The ballroom’s stench sticks to the back of my throat. Even five-thousand-dollar perfume can’t mask the filth of this place. I sit in the front row, watching the meat rotate.
I’m not a good person. I wasn't raised to be. I inherited my father’s empire—in all its filth and glory. That’s why, when I watch men and women sold for parts, for three months of a rich man’s fantasies, I’m usually bored.
I don’t need any of the fuckers here. I don’t need the "connections" of these bottom-feeders. But if I don't show my face, they think the Ice Queen is melting. And when they think you're soft, they try to take a bite. So, I show up to remind them, or else they’ll learn the other way.
The auctioneer’s been parading these poor things out for hours.
These "assets" sign papers, sure. They agree to be used. But in the end, they’ve been pushed here because of their environment; most of them had no other option but to say yes. Lot 398 was a beautiful girl; she went for six hundred thousand to a man who I know has a kink for tears. Lot 399 was a boy, barely twenty, who looked like he’d already forgotten his own name.
"Lot 402," the auctioneer rasps. "Viktor."
He’s hauled out, and the room goes quiet for a few seconds.
He’s a mountain of scarred, pale meat. They’ve slathered him in so much oil it’s dripping off his elbows, almost pooling on the stage.
He’s wearing nothing but black boxers that strain against the huge weight of his cock.
His muscles are corded like bridge cables.
The auctioneer purrs, flipping through a folder. "Hard limits: No men. No anal. No cutting or burning of the flesh."
The women in the crowd titter, their eyes raking over his skin, already thinking about where to sink their teeth.
I don’t feel the usual boredom when I look at him. Instead, something violent happens in my chest.
I don’t feel for people. But as I catch his eyes—hazel and utterly vacant—a suffocating sadness drips off him and onto me.
It’s a grief so dense it tastes like sucking on a copper coin. I feel like I’m choking on it. Every breath I take feels like I’m inhaling his misery, and it’s making my stomach turn. He’s not even there. It’s like he’s in another world in his mind, far away from here.
The bidding starts at four million. The women are foaming at the mouth, and I can sense the disappointment of some of the men here that he isn’t into their sex. They want to own the brute.
I feel a pressure in my throat. It seems like the only thing that will get this sheath of depression he’s spreading off my skin is to take him off the stage.
"A million!" a woman shrieks to my right, clearly drowning in a lust so desperate she’s willing to bid even more.
The nausea hits me again. Something is forcing my hand up.
I raise my paddle.
"Ten million."
The ballroom drops into a vacuum. A thin string of saliva connects to the auctioneer’s lips as he stares at me. Ten million is insanity.
I don’t even want to fuck him. I’m just curious about this sadness he’s emitting.
Viktor doesn't look at me. But he’s mine now.
Minutes later, a handler, a woman in a skirt so tight I can see her ass cheeks, leads me through the bowels of the building.
She stops at a heavy door, swipes a card, and it clicks open.
Viktor is sitting on the edge of a metal cot. The oil on his skin highlights every white line of scar tissue. He’s massive, but his shoulders are slumped.
Defeated.
"Hello, Viktor," I say. I’ve never bid on anyone before, so I’m not familiar with what exactly I should be saying.
He stares at the floor, his trembling hands resting on his knees.
"Ma'am," he rasps, giving me a short nod.
We then sign the contract, hand over STD tests, and get the technicalities out of the way.
"Let's go," I say after it’s all over.
The walk to the car is silent. I toss him a heavy coat, and he shrugs into it without a word.
Inside the limousine, we sit opposite each other. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He hasn't looked out the window once or even looked at me.
"Are you hungry?" I ask.
"No."
Well, this is awkward. Why do some people enjoy this?
"I have a cook at the house," I sigh. "He’ll make whatever you want. Whatever tastes like home."
"I don't have a home," he mutters in a slight Russian accent. "I have a cage."
"It's not a cage if the door isn't locked, Viktor."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Every door is locked, Ma'am," he whispers.
We drive into the dark, two hollowed-out things sharing a cage of glass while the rot between us grows.