Page 63 of Fangs

Cain counters. “Seventy.”

“Eighty.”

“One hundred.”

The twins reach for my panties.

My thighs press together. My bound hands cannot reach the waistband. I cannot stop them.

The room laughs. Cold. Cruel.

“No.” My voice cracks. “Please. Anyone but him.”

The pig-man’s grin widens. He raises his paddle. “One hundred fifty thousand.”

Cain’s jaw tightens. “Two hundred.”

“Two fifty.”

Cain hesitates.

The pig-man leans forward. “Your little protector cannot save you now, girl. I will break you. Train you. Make you beg for scraps. You will crawl through my halls on all fours.”

The twins yank. The fabric tears. I am exposed. Bare. Vulnerable. My last scrap of dignity stripped away.

The room devours me with their eyes.

The auctioneer’s voice cuts through. “Going once to Lord Silas for two hundred fifty thousand.”

I close my eyes.

“Going twice.”

My throat closes. I cannot breathe. Cannot speak.

The pig-man laughs.

And I break.

“Blake!”

The name tears from my throat, raw and desperate. It echoes through the hall, slicing through the murmur of the crowd.

“Blake, please. I need you. Please, I need you now.”

The room goes silent. The twins pause. The crowd stills. The auctioneer’s mouth hangs open.

The pig-man’s grin falters.

“Going—” The auctioneer tries to continue.

“One million.”

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. Thunderous. Cold. Absolute.

Every head turns toward the corner.

A figure cloaked in darkness, hidden in the shadows.