To Bleed A King

ELARA

The silk of the dress felt like cold skin against my ribs, thin enough to be a second layer of flesh, yet heavy with the weight of my own worthlessness.

I kept my head down, my hair falling like a dark, protective curtain to hide the fact that I was biting my lip until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth.

I just needed to stay upright. I needed to last through the next hour without my knees giving out.

"Lot 402," the auctioneer’s voice boomed, the sound bouncing off the cold marble walls of the Vane Estate.

"Pure. Untouched. Exceptional blood quality."

A lie. Every breath I took felt like inhaling crushed glass. My lungs were burning, a slow, invisible fire consuming me from the inside out, eating away at my vitality until I felt hollow. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying the cough wouldn't rattle my chest now. Not here. Not in front of them.

"Look at that skin," a man in the front row hissed. He was portly, his neck spilling over a stiff silk collar, his eyes roaming over my collarbones with a hunger that made my skin crawl.

"She looks like she’d bruise if you even breathed on her. Fragile. I like them fragile."

"I heard her family was desperate," another whispered, leaning in so close I could smell the stale brandy and expensive tobacco on his breath.

"Look at the way she’s shaking. She’s terrified. She won't last a week with a King."

The auctioneer grabbed my chin, his fingers callous and rough, forcing my head up so the light hit my face. I let out a sharp, choked breath, my eyes wide and watery. A single tear escaped, tracking a slow, glistening path down my cheek. I wasn't acting—the sheer terror of the room was enough to break anyone.

"Step forward, 402," the auctioneer commanded, tugging me toward the edge of the stage.

I stumbled, my legs feeling like lead. A collective indrawn breath came from the dark sea of suits below. They weren't men; they were vultures in tailored clothing, watching for the moment I finally collapsed. I could hear the rustle of checkbooks, the low hum of predatory interest that made me want to scream.

"Twenty million," someone called out from the back.

"Twenty-five!"

I let out a small, broken whimper, my shoulders hunching forward as if I could disappear into the fabric of my dress. I felt like a wounded bird caught in a storm.

"Look at her," the man with the brandy breath muttered, loud enough for me to hear. "She’s practically already dead. What a waste of good genes."

I didn't look at them. I couldn't. Instead, I let my gaze wander upward, past the glare of the heavy crystal chandeliers, to the private balcony draped in velvet.

There he was.

Silas Vane didn't look like the others. He didn't lean forward with lecherous greed or whisper foul things to his neighbors. He sat perfectly still, a god carved from obsidian—beautiful, cruel, and visibly starving.

Even from this distance, I could feel the coldness radiating off him, a gravitational pull that made the rest of the room feel insignificant.

His eyes were fixed on me, heavy and suffocating. He wasn't looking at the dress or the way I trembled. He was looking at my throat. He was looking at the way my pulse hammered against my skin, a frantic, rhythmic beat that seemed to draw him out of the shadows.

"Thirty million!" the man in the front row shouted, stepping toward the stage as if he wanted to reach out and touch the hem of my skirt. "I want her delivered to my estate tonight. I want—"

A sudden, violent silence cut him off. It wasn't because the auctioneer stopped him. It was because Silas Vane had stood up.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The whispers died in throats. The heavy, oppressive power of an Ancient filled the hall, making the oxygen feel thin and hard to swallow. Silas walked to the edge of the balcony, his movements fluid, silent, and terrifying.

"Fifty million," Silas said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the finality of a gavel. It was a raspy, dark sound, like gravel being crushed over silk.

The room held its breath. The man in the front row opened his mouth to protest, but one look from Silas—a flash of amber gold in his pupils—made the man’s face go ash-grey. He sank back into his seat, his bravado vanishing instantly. No one outbid a King. No one dared.

"Sold," the auctioneer whispered, his voice shaking. "To Mr. Vane."

I let my head drop, my heart racing so hard it felt like it might burst through my ribs. The fear was a living thing now, clawing at my throat.

Silas didn't wait for the paperwork. He turned and vanished into the shadows of the upper floor without a second glance. A moment later, two guards in black suits descended the stairs, their faces expressionless masks. They grabbed my arms—not roughly, but with the firm, inescapable grip of someone securing a prize.

"This way, 402," one grunted.

As they led me away from the bright lights of the stage and into the dark corridors of the estate, my legs finally gave out. They had to practically carry me, my feet dragging against the polished floor. I was nothing but a ghost in their hands, a girl sold to the most dangerous predator in the city.

I looked back at the empty balcony one last time before the doors swung shut. I was going to his house. I was going to his table. And as the darkness of the hallway swallowed me whole, I knew that whatever life I had left was no longer mine.

It belonged to Silas Vane.