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“It’s true. He wouldn’t make a trade with us for Teigan. He said you’re of no value, and he plans to auction her off instead,”Bree explains, leaving out a lot of the details that he doesn’t need to know.
I press the blade in more, hard enough for him to yelp in pain, but not enough to do any serious damage. His hands fly up to my wrist, and he tries to claw at me, to pull me away, but I don’t give a shit how much he wants to scratch me. I’m not backing down on this.
“No, please…You can’t kill me. I know stuff… I know a lot,” he cries, sounding more and more pathetic with each word.
If any of my family are shocked by the turn of events, they hide it well. Whitlock has been refusing to tell us anything so far, holding onto the bargaining chip he thought would be his ticket out of here. But now that Teigan is off the table, clearly, he thinks he can offer up something else to save himself.
That’s the thing about rats like him… They will do whatever it takes to survive, and they know fuck all about loyalty. Which is bloody great for us.
“What do you know about the auctions?” I snap, pulling his attention away from Bree and back to me.
“The ones run by The Sheriff at Club Crimson, or the others?” he responds.
“There are others?” Bree asks, sounding aggravated.
Whitlock quickly nods his head. “Yes, each leader runs something slightly different. The Sheriff is well known for his establishment—Club Crimson. It’s basically a sex club, and people are available for rent there each night. They cater for most tastes.
“Every fortnight, they hold an auction, where they sell off some of the Lots. It’s usually ones that don’t make much money regularly, or ones that will fetch more money being sold than rented.”
He takes a breath, like he’s not sure he wants to say more. So, I press the blade in just a little deeper, causing himto yelp. “Ouch…stop. The Sheriff is also well known for his performances.”
“What does that mean?” I snap.
Whitlock takes a breath, his eyes crinkling like he doesn’t want to tell us, but he’s aware he’s running out of options. “Every week, someone is selected to be the headliner of the performance. It’s basically a show he puts on…sells tickets and everything. The person who owns the Lot can decide the theme, and who takes part in it, but sometimes The Sheriff has a say too.”
“I’m gonna need an example, as I’m hoping whatever my brain is conjuring is worse than the real thing,” Kian says, which, I’m sure, is what we’re all thinking.
Given the way Whitlock winces and shakes his head, I’m worried the reality is worse. “I don’t think knowing will?—”
Before he has a chance to finish his sentence, I drag the knife across the surface of his neck, cutting him more. It’s only a surface wound, but it’s enough to draw more blood and have him screaming. “Stop! Fine, I’ll tell you. But remember…you insisted.”
“Yes, yes. Out with it,” Kian snaps, growing bored with Whitlock’s theatrics.
“The last one I attended was the headline performance of a young lady called Star. She’d been sold at an auction the week before, with the condition that she take part in one performance. Her owner decided to make it quite the show.
“The young girl was introduced to pain—including flogging, whipping, and paddling. Three men then taught her how to take a cock in each hole. They took turns with her until they’d each finished in all her holes. Then she was made to swallow the load of her owner, before the show was over,” Whitlock explains, his eyes remaining on the floor with each disgusting word he says.
“How old was she?” Liam asks, his voice sounding strained.
Whitlock looks up, his eyes widening as he takes in the look of anger and disgust on everyone’s face. I watch as the fear overtakes him, and he tries to step back, but there’s nowhere to go. “I wasn’t part of it,” he replies quickly.
“That’s not what I asked,” Liam snaps.
Whitlock lets out a sigh. “I don’t know exactly, but no more than twelve or thirteen.”
Gasps fill the room. They’re so loud, I’m not sure if it came from one, a few, or all of us. Either way, the disgust is more than evident, and none of us quite know what to say.
“How do I get into Club Crimson so I can take part in the auction?” I ask, and his eyes widen almost comically as he tries to shake his head at me, as much as he can with the blade against his neck limiting him.
“You can’t. Nobody will let you be part of the auction. Everyone in The Aristocracy knows how Bree feels about the business, and they all know you’re related—both personally and in business. It would be suicide to allow you into an auction,” he replies quickly, the words tumbling out like he can’t quite believe I would ask.
“But you know how to get into an auction? You know when they’re held and where?”
His eyes narrow, as though he’s trying to work out what I’m saying. I see the lightbulb moment when he realises he finally has something to trade, and a smile crosses his face.
“You want me to help you get into the auction? Well, in exchange, I want safe passage out of the country for me and my wife,” he replies, looking just as smug as he always does.
I see Finn flinch at the mention of Mel. We haven’t told Whitlock yet that his wife is dead. We figured he’ll be less likely to want to help us when he learns Bree shot his wife, so we’ve been keeping it under wraps for now.
