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“In,” Ginger says. He scowls at me and shakes his head. “Christ, I hope you go first.”
“Fuck you.”
The doors close. The light buzzes. Somewhere behind us, someone’s talking on a walkie-talkie.
I stop fighting and watch the panel instead, noting which floors light up and how many. I need to know how to get back up if I can.
But when we hit the bottom floor, the entire atmosphere changes as soon as the door opens.
Huge, floor-to-ceiling mirrors are illuminated by spotlights, showcasing all of us dressed in black, wearing heels, red makeup, and gold jewelry.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and almost don’t recognize myself. I need to look away.
I will never wear black again.
A long curtain hangs from a doorway, and beyond that… voices. The sound of clinking glass. Low strands of jazz music. It’s absurd, like this is a benefit gala and not whatever sordid fuckery it actually is.
“That one first,” one says, his eyes narrowed.
A hand closes around my upper arm, marching me forward. “Lot forty.” I don’t recognize this voice. I don’t recognize anyone. Even Ginger, my mortal enemy, is nowhere to be found now.
“Chin up. Smile. Buyers pay more for compliant.”
Like I fucking care what a buyer pays?
I don’t smile. I lift my chin because I want to see the room before it sees me, just before the curtain parts.
Glittering chandeliers cast golden light over a floor of men in suits holding numbered signs, as if we’re in an art gallery. On instinct, I go to count every exit.
There are none.
“Lot forty,” a low, dark voice announces over a microphone somewhere to my right. “Twenty-three years of age. Excellent condition. Perfect teeth.” Bile burns the back of my throat. They’re talking about me the way they might talk about a horse for sale. “Certified virgin.”
I look down for a second. The memory of how they fucking confirmed hasn’t left me.
But I won’t let them win. I lift my chin back up and try to see who’s bidding fast and who’s bidding slow. What these monsters look like.
That’s when I see him.
He’s not bidding. He’s not even looking at the auctioneer. He’s looking straight at me.
And he isn’t doing it the way the others are, as if mentally stripping me of my clothes and imagining the ways he’ll use my body. He stares at me the way he might a building that’s on the verge of collapse, as if gauging a threat.
He’s huge. Even seated, he takes up more space than the men around him.
His eyes are an unusually vibrant green, and his head’s shaved. He has a scar through one eyebrow, and I can’t help but wonder how he got it. He wears black like everyone else in this room, but it somehow suits him.
My first read: power. The posture, the size, the quality of his stillness. He’s a man accustomed to owning things, because of course he is. Who else would come here?
My second read, when I look again: He isn't tracking the stage the way the others are. He watches me the way you watch a door that won't stay shut.
He doesn't check any corners of the room. Doesn't glance toward a table, wait for a signal, or talk into a comm. He isn't reporting to anyone.
Then the auctioneer spins me around to show off my back. “Pretty little virgin ass,” he says, his voice lewd. I give him a sharp look. I’ll remember him too. “Bidding starts at ten.”
Ten what?
Ten thousand dollars?
