I flinch.
My name.He said my name. How does he know my name?
A sharp pulse of panic cuts through the drug haze. My breath stutters.Did Kelly tell him?I hate that she told him. It feels like a betrayal.
“Skyla’s eyes,” the announcer goes on, “shimmer with warm tones of brown and gold, giving them an almost ethereal glow under any light.”
I’m swaying. Sweat trickles down my back and along the back of my knees. My skin feels too tight. My mouth is dry, like I’ve swallowed sand.
“Her build is delicate,” the announcer says. “Her chest is small but still womanly, while her shapely hips and thighs speak to her fertility.”
The crowd murmurs again. Someone whistles. I hear a low growl from somewhere near the front—possessive and raw.
The urge to cry flares up inside me, and I sniffle loudly.
I don’t know where to look. I don’t know whereIam.
The lights blur, and I can’t tell if I’m hot or cold or both. My heart hammers like it’s trying to escape my chest. My fingers curl at my sides, nails digging into my palms just to feelsomethingreal.
The voice keeps talking. The crowd keeps watching.
And I stand there—barely myself. Not a girl. Not a person.
Just a prize.
“The downside to this omega,” the announcer says, voice pitching with mock regret, “is that she is previously mated...and rejected by her pack.” He frowns like he’s mocking a child.
A wave of disapproval ripples through the crowd. Groans. Scoffs. Sharp inhales. Disgust, loud and theatrical, like they’ve all been personally offended by the truth of me.
Shame coils deep in my gut, thick and poisonous.
My fingers twitch, reaching instinctively for my neck—seeking the ruined mark I wish I could hide. But the collar stops me. Rough leather bites into my skin, a cruel barrier against the itch and burn of the half-healed infection underneath.
I keep my hand there anyway. It makes me feel a little more like myself.
“However!” the announcer cries, lifting one finger in the air like this is some kind of performance. “She comes with a completely clean and intact background. Paperwork and all!”
Another round of murmurs from the crowd—this time more curious than angry.
Needing to dosomething, I take a single step forward, and a few faces come into focus. Past the blinding lights, rows of alphas in tailored suits and long coats stare up at me like wolves in the dark. Their gazes crawl over my body—hungry, sharp, evaluating. One licks his lips. Another leans forward, eyes gleaming like he's imagining me in pieces. Some of them whisper to each other. Others just stare, their lust so heavy I canfeelit pressing against my skin.
A few even look angry, like I’ve somehow wasted theirtime by not being untouched, or young enough, or desperate enough.
My breath hitches. I want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Crawl back behind the curtains and vanish.
And then I seehim.
Near the front, just off center. Taller than the others, broader too. He leans forward, like he can’t bear the idea of not being closer to the stage. His shoulders are tense, fists clenched at his sides. Long black hair falls past his collar, and a matching beard frames his sharp jaw. There’s a scar slashed through one of his eyebrows, a jagged white line against tan skin.
He looks like a character out of a TV show. One of those fantasy ones with dragons and monsters.
His eyes lock on mine, and his chest rises and falls too fast. Like his heart is pounding out of rhythm. Out of control.
I freeze.
He’s not moving, and he hasn’t said a word. But the look on his face?
It terrifies me.
