Chapter Eight
Chapter
Eight
MALACHI
The auctions have always bored me.
Other warlocks see the ritual as a chance to indulge, to seize something beautiful—someone desirable—and hold her for the duration of the Hunt, feeding off her essence, her devotion. To them, it's intoxicating, a visceral pleasure wrapped in the veneer of tradition.
To me, it's merely another transaction.
My gaze drifts lazily across the ballroom, watching masked faces twist with greed and anticipation.
It's all a dance, carefully choreographed by power, wealth, and ritual.
The participants mean little to me beyond the practical exchange—a year's worth of power in return for more money than most of these women will see in their lifetimes.
They think it's generosity.
It's not.
It's business.
Beside me, Gideon shifts subtly, his posture rigid, arms crossed over his chest as he watches a petite blonde walk center stage.
"One hundred thousand," someone calls from across the room. Another quickly counters with one hundred and ten thousand.
Gideon's mouth twitches. "They grow more extravagant each year."
"Supply and demand," I say dryly.
He gives me a sidelong look. "You seem distracted tonight."
"I'm observing."
"Observing?" Gideon's brow lifts just slightly. "Interesting choice of words."
I glance at him sharply. "Meaning?"
He shrugs, hands clasped behind his back, gaze steady. "You never fixate. And yet—" he gestures subtly toward the stage, eyes narrowed, "—you lingered."
I follow his gaze, irritation flickering beneath my skin, but don't deny it. Gideon sees too much, notices more than most. It's why he's useful—and occasionally infuriating.
"I'm allowed curiosity."
"You're rarely curious about the merchandise."
I let his words sit in the air unanswered.
Rarely? No—never.
But tonight is different. She is different.
My eyes drift across the crowded ballroom, seeking her out instinctively, like my body knows exactly where to find her.
And there she is, standing at the edge of the stage, eyes wide with uncertainty, chestnut hair catching the light, delicate curves draped perfectly in emerald silk.
She doesn't see herself clearly—doesn't understand her own allure—but I see it.
There's an innocence edged with steel, a vulnerability balanced by strength. Sage Holloway is more than she thinks she is. And tonight, she's unknowingly made herself the most valuable woman in this room.
The thought unsettles me.
It shouldn't matter.
It never has before.
Yet now, I'm counting down the moments until her name is announced.
Gideon shifts again, folding his arms across his chest. "She's attractive enough, but she doesn't seem your usual type."
"Do I have a type?"
He snorts quietly. "Yes. Predictable. Easily controlled. Compliant."
I narrow my eyes, but before I can respond, Sage steps to the center of the stage.
My breath catches slightly, and that's the first warning sign that this is more than simple observation.
She's visibly uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
Her posture stiffens slightly, her hands gripping the sides of her emerald gown.
Even from here, I sense the anxious flutter of her pulse, see the slight tremor in her fingertips.
Her expression holds uncertainty, apprehension, and something deeper—an echo of loneliness she hides carefully behind quiet dignity.
My jaw tightens as the Magister calls out, voice ringing clearly over the silent room: "Sage Holloway."
The silence that follows her name hangs heavily in the air.
No one bids immediately.
It's a hesitation, not a rejection—but she doesn't know that.
Her face, already guarded, shifts subtly.
Her blue-grey eyes scan the crowd, shoulders drawing inward slightly as doubt flickers across her features.
I see it plainly: the familiar retreat inward, the internal questioning.
She doubts her value compared to the women before her.
I watch the way her fingers twist nervously in the fabric of her gown.
She believes no one sees her worth. But I do.
Beside me, Gideon clears his throat quietly. "Interesting," he murmurs. "You aren't bidding yet."
"Neither are you," I reply coolly.
He nods, thoughtful. "Perhaps I'm curious too. Perhaps it's amusing to watch you hesitate for once."
My gaze sharpens. "Careful."
He shrugs slightly, expression neutral. "If you don't bid soon, Asher will. He's watching her like he's found something new to play with."
I glance toward Asher. He stands near the stage, drink in hand, eyes bright with interest and something dangerously close to amusement. He notices me watching, tipping his glass slightly as if in challenge.
I bite back the irritation rising in my chest. He's baiting me. Of course he is. He enjoys pushing, testing limits, especially mine. But he's right—I can't stall forever.
On the stage, Sage lifts her chin slightly, the trembling in her hands easing as she steadies herself. Her eyes are defiant, daring anyone to dismiss her entirely.
Gideon watches me carefully, voice low and knowing. "If you don't claim her, someone else will."
I already know that.
I don't speak, don't move. I simply hold her gaze, waiting, considering.
Letting the silence stretch just a bit longer.
It's strategic, I tell myself, a tactic to gauge the competition, nothing more.
But deep down, beneath logic and reason, I know the truth is more complicated.
I want her, and I can't afford to let anyone else have her.
The Magister clears his throat, a subtle cue that the bidding window is nearly closed. At this point, Sage's embarrassment feels imminent, like a shadow creeping closer. My gaze briefly meets Asher's again, the faint smirk on his lips raising my ire.
"Five hundred thousand."
My voice cuts through the room, sharp and unequivocal.
The reaction is immediate.
Heads turn, mouths part slightly in shock, and whispers ripple outward like waves from a stone dropped into still water. Even Gideon stiffens beside me. No one ever bids that high—not this early, not for someone unknown. It's reckless, extravagant, deliberately designed to discourage challenge.
But I'm not taking chances.
On stage, Sage's eyes widen, her expression shifting rapidly from confusion to shock. Her lips part slightly, as though she can't quite believe she heard correctly. It's clear no one has ever placed a price like that on her before.
"Five hundred thousand," the Magister echoes clearly, nodding toward me. "The bid stands at half a million."
I let the silence sink in, savoring it. There's no way anyone else would dare challenge that sum. This isn't just a bid—it's a statement, a declaration. She's mine.
The Magister lifts his hand, preparing to close the bidding, but before he can speak, a familiar voice calls out lazily from the back of the ballroom.
"Six hundred thousand."
Asher.
He stands casually, whiskey glass in hand, eyes glittering with mischief, clearly enjoying the sudden ripple of shock spreading through the room.
My jaw tightens.
Gideon clears his throat beside me. "You knew he wouldn't resist."
I narrow my eyes at Asher. "He's playing games."
Gideon hums softly in agreement, but his tone is amused. "He's doing a good job of it."
"Eight hundred thousand," I call out, voice low and measured, masking any hint of irritation. I see Sage's eyes widen further, her cheeks flushing beneath her mask, the color making her seem even more alluring.
"Nine hundred thousand," Asher counters effortlessly, lifting his glass in a mocking salute toward me.
Elias steps forward from his shadowed corner, finally breaking his quiet observation. His expression is cool, thoughtful, though I sense the undercurrent of genuine interest beneath his calm exterior.
"One million."
The ballroom erupts into low, fervent murmurs, excitement buzzing through the gathered crowd. This is unprecedented—three of us openly competing like this, in full view of everyone else.
I study Elias carefully, noting the glint of genuine curiosity in his eyes. It's clear he feels a draw toward her as much as I do, though he's less obvious about it than Asher. He's subtle, always measured, but this is bold, even for him.
"One-point-five million," Asher calls out, sounding more delighted than ever. "Sorry, gentlemen. But this one's too intriguing to let go so easily."
My jaw tightens, and I lift my chin, leveling a steady look at Asher. He knows exactly what he's doing. He's trying to provoke me, to bait me into something reckless.
It's working.
"One point seven," Elias says smoothly, adjusting his cuffs, casual as though he's bidding on a rare first-edition manuscript and not a woman whose worth is rapidly skyrocketing with every heartbeat.
"Two million," I counter, my voice controlled, cold, a warning I know both Elias and Asher can hear clearly.
Asher laughs outright. He leans casually against a column, looking thoroughly entertained. "Two-point-five million. Let's make things interesting."
A tense hush sweeps over the crowd now. Even the Magister seems stunned. Sage's expression moves beyond disbelief and edges into something closer to panic. Her fingers clutch her gown tighter, as though afraid this entire night might dissolve beneath her grasp.
I refuse to look at her, knowing if I do, my composure might slip. I focus on Asher instead, feeling my power simmer beneath my skin, barely contained.
He arches an eyebrow, challenging me openly. He's testing how far I'll go.
Fine.
"Three million," I say, voice quiet but clear, a tone that leaves no doubt about my intentions.
Absolute silence fills the room. Even Asher seems momentarily speechless, his expression caught between shock and admiration. Elias inclines his head slightly, acknowledging defeat gracefully.
The Magister finally steps forward, recovering quickly enough to raise a hand. "Sage Holloway, sold to Malachi Black for three million."
The crowd breaks into soft applause, polite but stunned, like they've witnessed history unfolding before their eyes. But I'm no longer focused on them.
I watch Sage.
She stands rooted to the spot, eyes wide, disbelief etched into every line of her posture. Our gazes lock, and in that instant, she knows exactly what just happened—though she can't yet understand the implications.
She belongs to me now.
And for the first time in my life, I've claimed someone for more than power. More than a mere business transaction.
I don't know exactly what I've done or why I've done it.
But looking at her now, I feel something entirely unfamiliar—something protective, something possessive, something that tightens my chest with startling intensity.
As the Magister announces, "Sage Holloway, claimed by Malachi Black," I realize the night's true intrigue has only just begun.