Sold
The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and the quiet murmur of men with money. I don’t bother looking up. I know what’s coming.
I’ve been here before, in different places, same result. The floor beneath me is cold stone, my knees sore from kneeling too long. My wrists are bound in silk, a twisted mockery of comfort, while a thin slip of fabric is the only thing covering my body. It’s a game they play, dressing up the merchandise to make the buyers feel like kings.
The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the fog in my head. “And now, gentlemen, something... special.”
The room stills. My stomach knots.
I lift my head just enough to catch sight of them. Shadows in tailored suits, cigars smoldering between fingers, watching me like I’m nothing more than a number. But one of them isn’t seated like the others. He stands at the edge of the room, dressed in black, his hands in his pockets, watching me with an expression that isn’t hunger. It’s possession. Like he already owns me.
The air shifts. The men around him move aside, murmuring, deferential. He’s not a bidder. He’s something more.
The auctioneer clears his throat. “A personal gift, from our... mutual friend.”
A gift. I wasn’t even worth bidding on.
The man steps forward. The moment he does, the tension in the room changes. He doesn’t need to speak. The auctioneer snaps his fingers, and two men grab me by the arms, dragging me to my feet.
My heart pounds. This is different. I’ve been sold before, but never like this. Never to someone who doesn’t even need to ask.
He looks me over, his gaze slow, assessing. Not in the way the others do, leering and careless. He’s studying me like he’s deciding what to do with me. Like he’s already planned it.
Then, he steps closer, so close I can smell him clean, expensive, with something darker underneath. He reaches out, fingers tilting my chin up until I’m forced to meet his gaze.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “No.”
His thumb brushes my bottom lip slowly. Testing. “You will.”
My pulse is a war drum in my ears. I don’t know who he is.
But I know exactly what happens next.
And again, I’m afraid.
I don’t struggle when they pull me forward.There’s no point. Resistance only makes it worse. I’ve learned that the hard way.
The men shove me toward him, and I stumble, barely catching myself before my crashy wrists are still bound, useless. His hands stay in his pockets, unmoving, like he expected me to fall at his feet.
I force myself to stand straight. Not because I have pride left. Pride was beaten out of me long agobut because I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me small.
The auctioneer clears his throat. “She’s yours now.”
A statement, not a question.
I chance a glance at him,
my new owner
. His face is unreadable, carved from stone, but his eyes hold something I can’t place. Not lust. Not amusement.
Control
.
He turns without a word, walking toward the exit.
One of the men shoves me forward. “Go.”
I hesitate for half a second too long, and the man’s grip tightens on my arm. Pain blooms beneath his fingers.
Dante speaks without turning.
“Touch her again, and I’ll break your fucking hand.
”
The room goes silent.
The man immediately lets go. My skin throbs where he held me, but I don’t move. Not until Dante’s voice reaches me again.
“Come.”
I follow. Because what choice do I have?
The world outside the auction house is cold, the night air biting at my bare skin. Dante doesn’t look back as he leads me to a black car parked by the curb. A man in a suit opens the door for him, eyes straight ahead like this is just another night.
Dante slides in first. I pause, my body tensed, every survival instinct screaming at me.
“Get in,” he says, voice calm. But there’s an edge beneath it, a warning.
I lower myself onto the seat, the leather cool against my thighs. The door shuts behind me, locking me in. The driver doesn’t even glance back before pulling away from the curb.
The silence stretches between us. I keep my hands in my lap, wrists still bound, my pulse an unsteady rhythm.
He watches me. Not saying anything. Just watching.
It’s worse than if he’d touched me.
“You’re quiet,” he finally says.
I don’t respond. There’s no right answer here.
His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate. “They told me you were broken.”
My breath catches. The words shouldn’t sting. But something about the way he says it, as a matter of fact, makes my stomach tighten.
He leans closer, the heat of him suffocating. “Are you?”
I swallow. Shake my head. “No.”
His lips curve slightly. Not a smile. A reaction.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t like broken things.”
His fingers trail up my thigh, testing, waiting.
I go still.
He exhales softly, amused. “Let’s see how much fight you really have left.”
And just like that, I know this is not just another night.
This is the start of something.
