𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

MORANA

I wake to pain.

A ringing inside my skull like metal screaming against metal, the taste of iron thick in my mouth, blood drying at the corner of my lips. My arms are wrenched behind me, wrists cuffed so tightly the metal bites bone. Every muscle burns. My knees scrape against concrete as two guards drag me across the floor like garbage.

Not even human. Not even worth dignity.

Story of my fucking existence.

The lights above blind me, hot, brutal, interrogating. I blink through the blur and see shadows of men gathered in rows of chairs, cigar smoke curling in the air, money stacked like altars to their god of greed. They watch me like wolves circling a dying deer.

Let them fucking starve.

Someone grips my hair and yanks my head back until my neck feels like it might snap. A rough voice snarls by my ear, breath thick with whiskey and something rotting:

“Look up, princess. Time to earn your father’s debt.”

Princess.

The word tastes rotten. Like a joke spat from a mouth that deserves to be broken. If I had even one hand free, I’d rip his tongue out and feed it to him.

They haul me upright, shove me forward. My feet slip. I’m barefoot, the floor slick with something that smells like bleach and fear. A shove between my shoulder blades sends me stumbling onto a raised platform, metal, cold, unforgiving. The lights slam on, spotlight branding my skin. And now I see it, the stage.

The fucking auction stage. A long mahogany table. A microphone. An armed man standing beside it like Satan’s spokesperson. And the crowd, rich, violent men leaning forward, hungry.

For blood. For control. For me. My stomach turns, but not with fear. With rage so white, hot it tastes like wildfire climbing my throat.

I laugh. A broken, bloody sound that echoes through the room. “Really? Selling me like cattle? What’s next, do I get a barcode on my ass?”

Gasps ripple. A few chuckles. Most go quiet. Good. Let them choke on silence. The auctioneer steps forward, smiling with the kind of smile men wear before they cut a body open.

“Gentlemen, I present to you—”

“—your worst fucking mistake,” I snap.

Rough hands slam into my back, forcing me to my knees. Pain detonates down my spine, but I refuse to bow my head. I lift my chin higher. My voice carries through the hall like a whip. “Whoever buys me chokes on me. I'll make sure I’m the last goddamn thing you ever touch before I slit your throat.”

A murmur spreads, interest, amusement, annoyance They expected fear. Begging. Tears. They expected the daughter my father raised. Not the one he betrayed. Because that’s the real punchline, isn’t it? I wasn’t kidnapped because he loved me. Hell, he didn’t even protect me. He didn’t fight for me. He ran. Left me behind like trash. Like I was nothing. That man fucking sold me.

And love? That man doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He knew power. Money. Survival. And I was just another chip to bet with. So fuck him. Fuck them all.

The auctioneer lifts his hand. The bidding begins.

“Five million.”

The voice rolls like thunder, deep, controlled, dangerous. I turn my head and see him, tall, broad shoulders, suit black as midnight, expression carved from stone. Eyes like winter. Cold enough to freeze hell. Every man here reeks of power, but he owns the room.

Then another voice, sharp and reckless, “Ten million.”

This one stands leaning forward, tattoos crawling over his throat and hands, knuckles bruised like he breeds violence for sport. Eyes wild, hungry, unhinged. He’s grinning like Christmas came early.

Someone else tries to speak, but doesn’t finish the sentence because Tattoo-boy crosses the room in two strides and slams a gun across his face. A crack, a scream, teeth hit the ground.

Chaos erupts. Men back away.

And then, Silence.

A third voice, soft. Too soft. The kind of quiet that smells like death.

"Fifty million.”

I look up and meet eyes pale as moonlight. The kind of man who doesn’t need to speak to be heard. A ghost wearing skin. He lifts only two fingers to bid. Not a muscle moves.

He watches me like he already knows how I taste, how I bleed, how I break. Except I don’t break.

The auctioneer spreads his arms. His smile widens like a knife. “Share her. Or she dies now.” A gun presses to my temple.

The metal is ice. I don’t flinch. I smile instead, bloody and bright. “Pull the trigger, coward.” The crowd holds its breath. The three men move faster than thought. Pens scrape paper. Blood signs contracts.

First the king. Then the weapon. Then the ghost.

The last hand grips my chin, gloved fingers pressing my jaw until I meet those predatory silver eyes. His voice slips into my bones like smoke.

“Breathe, Fireheart.”

A whisper. A vow. A threat.

“This is the beginning.”

And for the first time since the world ended, my pulse stutters. Not with fear. With fury. Because they think they just bought me. But they have no idea, I’m the fire they should’ve never touched.

And fire doesn’t surrender.

Fire burns.