I squeeze my eyes shut, hard. Try to block it all out—the lights, the voices, the stares.
Him.
But I can still feel it. That heat. That focus. Like he’s already claimed me with his eyes.
I try to stay somewhere inside myself. A small, locked room where none of this can touch me. But the moment I squeeze my eyes shut, the announcer’s voice booms through the space, louder, almost triumphant.
“Let’s start the bidding at two thousand!”
A voice cuts through the crowd—deep, gravelly, impatient. “Four!”
The crowd stirs.
“Four thousand from the floor!” the announcer crows. “A bold opening bid from the gentleman in the front.”
I open my eyes.
It’shim.
The scary alpha with the long black hair and the scar. He hasn’t moved an inch, but his voice thrums with something primal. A challenge. A warning.
Another alpha—some smug-looking man in a velvet jacket—raises his hand. “Five!”
“Six,” the black-haired alpha growls immediately.
The crowd buzzes. The air thickens.
The announcer leans into the excitement, his voice sliding into something oily and theatrical.
“Now, let’s not forget—this omega is already trained in the ways of pleasing an alpha,” the announcer purrs, and I want to disappear. “She’s taken a knot and, according to her last owner, she can swallow a cock all the way to the root!”
A fresh wave of heat rises to my face. Not from shame—no, that left a long time ago. This is rage, raw and useless, bubbling under my skin. But I swallow it down, force myself to stay still, chin up, eyes dry.
“Seven!” someone else shouts.
“Eight!” the scarred alpha says—his voice like stone cracking.
The crowd is shifting now, charged, eager to watch the fight. Not for me. Not really. I’m just the bloodied prize at the end of the hunt.
The velvet-jacket alpha sneers, clearly not used to losing. “Ten thousand!”
Someone gasps, and a few others hum in approval.
My stomach twists.
I glance back at the scary alpha—Scar, I name him inmy head—and for the first time, he moves—slightly. His head tilts. His lip curls, like he’s amused. Or about to kill something.
“Fifteen,” he says, low and final.
A beat of silence. Two. Then the gavel slams like a gunshot.
“Sold!” the beta announces, breathless. “To the gentleman in the front!”
The crowd erupts in murmurs. The velvet alpha mutters something under his breath, then glares at his feet. The crowd’s already bored, ready for the next offering.
But I’m still standing under the hot lights, the heat crawling over my skin. My legs feel like they’re made of glass.
Then another alpha comes into focus next to Scar.
