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I’m not sure how I was able to form the last part of that, but it’s not a lie. Pissed is a gross understatement of what I am, but it’s the best I could do given the circumstances.
“Pissed?” Lawrence says, scandalized. “Is that not a phrase used to describe urination?” He directs his question to the other, who chokes out a laugh.
“She’s using it as slang to inform us she’s angry.”
Lawrence furrows his brow. “Pissed,” he mutters.
“How did you do this?” I ask, looking out at the sexual acts unfolding.
“Perceptive,” Lawrence says as if proud. “We had to keep them busy so that we could meet the donors.” I growl at the term applied to me and the others, and Lawrence has the good sense to grimace at his misstep. “My apologies. It’s the term the Council has given to those of you they’ve brought here. I’m not sure what else to call you.”
He seems contrite, which is strange and unwelcome. I don’t want these men to appear good in any way. I’ve been naïve before and I won’t again. “You can call us victims,” I seethe.
The Crown’s eyes narrow, “Have they hurt you?”
I blink. Is he serious? Did they hurt me? I clench my hands into fists and allow the anger to take hold.
“I was taken from my home,” I grit, staring him down with all the hatred my five-foot-seven frame possesses. “Thrown into a dark cell and starved for days. I witnessed a brutal murder and now I’m being paraded around to be sold to creatures that will most definitely kill me. What doyouthink?” I bite out the words, letting the rage fuel me.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly. His eyes don’t leave mine. He stares back, conveying to me that he means it, but it doesn’t matter. He’s allowing it to continue, which makes him my enemy just as much as the others.
“Unless you plan to do something to stop it, your apology is worthless to me.”
“Believe me, if I could, I would.”
I cringe.
“Did she not call you the Crown? Is this not your auction?” I quiz.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Lawrence chimes in.
“Just go,” I say, turning my head away. All hope of help evaporated with his words. He won’t help and we’re as good as dead.
“Tell me your name,” Lawrence commands, sounding harsh for the first time. I huff out a harsh breath. He doesn’t deserve anything from me, but for some reason I give in. Maybe it’s because I want to hear it one last time. Or maybe it’s some idiotic hope that, like with all serial killers, if I make myself a real person in his eyes, it will be harder for him to kill me. Or so I’ve heard.They aren’t human.
“Marina Drake.”
Lawrence inhales sharply, closing his eyes, looking like he’s in pain.
The other man arches a brow at Lawrence, confused by his reaction.
“Do you know her, Lawrence?”
The man named Lawrence raises his head to the other, shaking it back and forth, but not convincingly. Could he possibly know me?
“No. It’s not that. My head is pounding.”
“Perhaps you’re hungry. Should you eat something?”
I recoil at this suggestion, palms beginning to sweat again, and a sheen of perspiration builds at my hairline.
“Dear God, girl, he didn’t mean you.” He motions toward the cart of glasses. “We aren’t barbarians,” Lawrence says, appalled by my misunderstanding. I don’t say anything.
“I won’t be sampling anyone today,” he says coolly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a hint of revulsion underlying those words. Does he not like blood? Is that even possible for a vampire?
“Surely you aren’t going to pass up a glass of perfectly aged type O, brother,” a male voice calls from the corner of the room. Every vampire in the room stops what they’re doing and all eyes fly in his direction. A tall man with long, jet-black hair stands menacingly just inside of the door.
“Marcellus,” the Crown says. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you this month.”
