Chapter 5 #2
A crack splits through my chest, sharp and sudden, and warmth floods in where it has no business being. My heart pounds harder. My breath catches. This woman hasn't said a word to me, and already she's rearranging things inside me I thought were set in stone.
"Onyx Rose Malone," the auctioneer announces, his voice dripping with theatrical pleasure. "Twenty-five years old. Certified virgin, verified by our medical staff. Niece of Seamus Malone, one of Chicago's most prominent... businessmen."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. They know the Malone name. They know what it means to own a piece of that bloodline.
"We'll start the bidding at five hundred thousand."
Paddles rise immediately. The number climbs. Six hundred. Seven. Eight. A million.
I don't move. Not yet. Let them drive up the price. Let them think they have a chance.
On stage, Onyx's eyes sweep the crowd. She's cataloging faces the same way I did. Journalist's instincts, maybe. Or survival. Probably both. Her gaze moves from bidder to bidder, and I see her jaw tighten with each raised paddle, each number called.
She knows what's happening. She knows what these men plan to do with her.
And she's not crying. Not begging. She's memorizing every face so she can destroy them later.
Da. I chose right.
"Two million," someone calls from the front row. A Saudi prince whose appetites are legendary in certain circles. The kind of man who uses women until they break and then discards the pieces. This prince has vast amounts of wealth that ensures he always gets what he wants.
So do I.
"Two point five," counters a voice to my left. American. Tech money. I know this one too. His predilections run toward the violent that leave a lot of his lovers dead.
Onyx's hands tremble harder, but her chin stays high.
"Three million."
"Three point five."
I pour another vodka and let the numbers climb a few more notches. Four million. Four point five. The crowd is getting excited now, sensing blood in the water, eager to see who will claim the prize.
Five million.
The room holds its breath.
I wrap my fingers around the paddle, feeling the smooth wood against my palm, the weight of what I'm about to do settling into my bones. Then I raise it, slow and deliberate, letting every eye in the room find me before I speak.
"Twenty million."
My voice cuts through the silence like a blade, deep and flat and final. It echoes off the vaulted ceiling, bounces back from the stained glass windows, fills every corner of this desecrated church with the weight of my intent.
Silence. Complete, absolute silence. Every head in the room swivels toward me. The auctioneer's practiced smile falters, his mouth hanging open for a split second before he recovers. The Saudi prince's face contorts with rage, mottled red creeping up his neck.
I meet his eyes and let him see exactly what I am. The monster. The beast. He has all the free will afforded by his royal status. But I have something he doesn’t.
Our gazes connect and he reads my silent message. He remembers the Russian in the back room of Redthorn Holdings. The man who swiftly detached his pinky finger for crossing his client while under a contract enforced by the Syndicate.
He also remembers the price we collected from him. Not only five hundred million in gold bars. But also his youngest brother, the one with the gambling debts who now owes the Syndicate more than his royal allowance could cover in three lifetimes.
The prince inclines his head in my direction out of respect and lowers his paddle.
"Twenty million from the gentleman in the back," the auctioneer recovers, his voice pitched higher now with barely concealed excitement. "Do I hear twenty point five?"
Nothing. No one moves. No one fucking breathes.
When Konstantin Vetrov wants something, wise men get the fuck out of my way.
"Going once." The auctioneer scans the crowd, desperate for another bid. "Going twice."
On stage, Onyx's eyes find mine across the sea of silk and predators. I watch her take in my size, my stillness, the way I'm watching her like she's the only person in this room. Something flickers across her face. Fear, yes. But something else too. Calculation. Assessment.
She's not looking at me like prey looks at a predator. She's looking at me like one predator sizing up another.
Good girl.
"Sold!" The hammer falls, the crack echoing through the room like a gunshot. "To the gentleman in the back for twenty million dollars."
The crowd erupts in murmurs. Jealousy. Speculation. A few men eye me with open hostility. Let them. I didn't come here to make friends.
I rise from my seat and move toward the stage, the crowd parting before me like water around a shark.
I feel their eyes on my back, hot with envy and cold with calculation.
The floorboards creak beneath my weight.
The stage lights grow brighter, warmer, as I approach, washing everything in harsh white that makes the shadows deeper.
Up close, she's smaller than I expected. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. I could wrap one hand around both her wrists. But those blue eyes blaze up at me with fury, not gratitude, and up close I can see the ring of gold around her pupils, bright as fire.
A handler guides her toward me with a hand on her elbow.
She jerks away from his touch, a sharp recoil that speaks of too many hands on her in the past few days, and I file that away.
The instinctive flinch. The flash of revulsion.
Someone's been putting hands on her. Someone's going to lose those hands.
"Your purchase, Mr. Vetrov." The handler's smile churns the vodka in my stomach. "Shall I have her prepared for transport?"
"I'll handle it myself."
I reach for her arm, and the moment my fingers close around her bicep, heat jolts through me.
Her skin is soft, impossibly soft beneath my calloused palm, but I can feel the steel underneath, the tension coiled in her muscles.
She's so small under my hand. Fragile in a way that makes something ancient and protective roar to life in my chest. But the way she holds herself tells me she'd bite my throat out if I gave her the chance.
She tenses like a coiled spring, every muscle in her body going rigid.
"Don't touch me." Her voice is hoarse, probably from screaming, but steady.
I lean down, letting my breath ghost across her ear, close enough to smell the fear on her skin mixed with something floral, something soft that shouldn't exist in a place like this.
"I just bought you, огонёк. I'll touch what's mine."
It's a test. I want to see what she does. Whether she'll cower or collapse or give in the way so many others would.
She doesn't flinch. Those blue eyes bore into mine with cold fire.
"Then you overpaid. I bite, you rat bastard. Hard. Don’t ever turn your back on me."
Another wave of unwanted warmth floods my chest. It’s irritating as hell and completely fucking inconvenient. And frankly, I'm biting back a grin because this bruised, defiant woman just promised to bite me, and all I can think is good.
I let my lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. "You bite, I bite. Got it?"
I turn to the auctioneer. “You have my details and how to collect, correct?”
“Yes, sir. We can help with delivery–”
“No.” I cut him off.
I’m tempted to haul her over my shoulder caveman style, but I have more class than most consider possible.
I steer her toward the exit, keeping my hand firm on her arm, playing the role of the possessive buyer for anyone watching.
She moves stiffly beside me, her body vibrating with tension, but she doesn't fight.
Smart. She knows this isn't the place. She's waiting. Calculating. I’m just waiting for the knee to the balls.
I tuck that thought away as we cut through the crowd.
Eyes track our movement, some envious, some hostile, all of them belonging to men who will answer for tonight eventually.
The servers don't look up as we pass, their chains clinking softly, their souls already gone.
On stage, Lot 24 is being positioned under the spotlight.
My skin crawls. Every instinct screams at me to turn around and start killing.
Later.
The stairs stretch upward toward the exit, toward fresh air and freedom, and I guide her up each step with my hand steady on her arm. The temperature climbs as we ascend, the basement chill giving way to warmer air, and then we push through the door and the night air hits us like a benediction.
Cold. Clean. The sharp bite of late autumn cutting through the perfumed rot still clinging to my suit.
I pull in a deep breath, feeling my lungs expand with air that doesn't taste like desperation.
Beside me I hear Onyx do the same. A ragged inhale.
The first real breath she's probably taken in days.
The city sprawls before us, lights glittering against the dark sky, and somewhere a siren wails. Normal sounds. Human sounds. Nothing like the muffled horror of the basement we just escaped.
A black SUV waits at the curb. Cristian waits behind the wheel, his pale gray eyes flicking to us in the rearview mirror. He doesn't ask questions when I open the back door and guide Onyx inside. My cousin starts the engine and pulls away from the church-turned-hellhole.
She presses herself against the far door, putting as much distance between us as the backseat allows. I don't blame her. If I were in her position, I'd be looking for a weapon and an escape route too.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The city lights streak past the tinted windows, yellow and white and red blurring into ribbons, and I can practically hear her brain working, sorting through options, running scenarios.
Finally, she breaks the silence.
"Are you the one who read my wish?"
“You know who I am?”
She lifts her chin and holds my gaze despite the darkness. "I do."