Page 134 of The Auction
The muscle clears his throat, and it’s not a polite sound—it’s a warning.
“I’ll do it for you if you refuse to comply.”
I stare at him, just long enough to know he means it. Then I turn my back. My shirt comes off. My jeans follow. I look only at my own reflection in the mirror, closing myself off to everything else.
“Mmm,” the lord hums, eyes crawling over me. “Very lovely.”
“She is,” the muscle agrees, gaze openly raking my body.
I close my eyes. I am anywhere else. Anywhere but here.
The woman steps in, tape measure snapping between her fingers. She works quickly, efficiently—like I’m nothing but fabric to her. It’s only when she calls out a number that I notice another girl in the room. Young. My age, maybe younger. She slips into the racks, silent, returns with several gowns draped over her arms.
The woman sifts through them, plucks one. “Try this one.”
I glance at the muscle in the mirror, then take the dress and step into it. The fabric is heavy, suffocating.
“Yes. This one,” the woman says, her voice clipped.
The lord stands like the decision is final. “Have it ready by tomorrow.”
My stomach drops. “Tomorrow?” I spin to face him.
He takes slow, deliberate steps toward me. “Yes. Tomorrow. No need to draw things out. I’m eager for an heir.” His gaze drags down my body. “I’m eager toputan heirinyou… as well.”
The back of his finger runs down my breast. Instinct takes over—I smack it away.
His smile disappears. His hand shoots down, grabbing the hem of the dress and yanking me toward him. “We’ll have none of that once you are my wife. You will learn that lesson quickly.” He releases me, smooths his jacket like nothing happened. “Best not make the punishment worse on yourself.”
He heads for the door, the muscle following with a smirk that makes my skin crawl.
“I will take you every way I want you tomorrow night, my bride,” the lord says without looking back. “It will hurt less if you behave.”
They’re gone, but the air feels no lighter.
The woman and the young girl remain. The muscle stands at the door, watching me with a stare that feels like hands on my skin. I can see it in his eyes—he’s already imagining things he’ddo to me if the lord allowed it. And I’m betting, eventually, he will.
“Turn around. We’ll pin the adjustments.” The woman’s voice is cold. Detached. As if she doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—that I’m here against my will.
I turn. Stand still as she works.
The first pin bites my side and the tears come, hot and silent, falling down my face as she fits me for the dress I’ll be married in.
And possibly destroyed in.
Islide to a stop so hard the back tire skids. Kickstand down, kill switch flicked, helmet off—done in seconds.
I take the steps to her front door three at a time and don’t bother knocking. Don’t bother breathing. I shoulder the door open like I own the place.
Jon’s in the foyer with a concerned-looking Shanae.
“This doesn’t sit right,” she says, her voice tight.
Jon turns toward me just in time for me to rear back and drive my helmet straight into his face. The crack is sickening, satisfying.
“You’re right, Shanae,” I say, calm as steel.
Jon staggers back, cursing, blood already running. I swing the helmet again, harder this time, and feel his nose break under it. He drops like a sack of bricks, head bouncing off the hardwood. Dazed. Moaning.
