Page 11 of The Auction
His eyes are bloodshot, unfocused but not unaware. He sees me standing there and doesn’t even look surprised.
He raises his drink to his lips and takes a slow pull, the motion lazy, while one of the girls continues working him in her mouth and the other trails kisses along his thigh.
His hand finds the crown of the girl’s head, fingers tangling in her hair as she bobs up and down on his cock.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” His voice is lazy, almost bored. One of the girls looks back at me and laughs. “Close the door on your way out, little girl.”
The words don’t hit all at once—they slide in like ice water, slow and numbing.
Something in me shifts. Not a dramatic shatter—just a clean, precise break.
He’s a fucking asshole.
This is who he is. This is his world—older, confident women who know exactly how to please him. Compared to them, I’m just a kid playing dress-up.
God, I’m such a fool.
My throat tightens. A single tear escapes before I can stop it.
“I hate you.”
It came out a soft whisper. Not a scream or a huff. Just a silently spoken truth.
I turn, pulling the door closed without checking if it latches. I just need to get out.
Down the stairs, every step a fight to keep from splintering apart. The music and laughter swell around me, a party still in full swing, but for me, something’s ended.
The girls laugh again from upstairs, sharp and careless. Bree calls my name from somewhere behind me, concern threading her voice, but I keep moving not looking back.
Because I know—in my bones, in my blood—that I will never want anything to do with Jaxon Kane again.
SIX YEARS LATER
The tires crunch over the gravel as I turn off the main road and onto the long, winding drive I’ve known since before I even understood what roads were.
The Hayes estate always did feel like more than someone else’s home—it was part of my childhood. My second backyard. My second kitchen. My second family.
The horse pastures stretch out on either side of the drive, wide and open, dotted with fences that seem to go on forever. Late summer sun bathes the fields in gold, and like always, a few of the horses trot up to the fence to race me in.
Retired racers, still full of fire.
One of them breaks into a full gallop just for the hell of it, and I can’t help but grin as I downshift and keep pace.
Fitting.
This place has always been about speed. Strength. Power you can’t bottle.
I roll to a stop in front of the house, just outside the wide double doors, and kill the engine.
The silence afterward feels heavier than it should.
I swing a leg off the bike and pull off my gloves, tucking them into the side compartment before unhooking my helmet. My hair sticks to my forehead, sweat and heat pressing down after the ride, and I swipe a hand through it before turning toward the house.
My gaze lifts automatically to the second story window on the right—the one where the curtains were always drawn back.
Always occupied.
It’s empty. Has been for years now yet I still look.
