Page 5 of Sold Bullied Mate

The trader’s eyes widen, and though it’s nearly imperceptible, I catch him shifting to the right, hand twitching ever so slightly toward a chest hidden under his table.

“Don’t got any,” he says, voice rough, face sun-burnt and nearly like leather.

I lean in closer, until my face is an inch from his, and I smell his body odor, his scent, his fear.

“Why don’t you look again.”

His eyes flick to the chest under the table, and I give him a grin. My goal is that the grin conveys what I’m feeling—I’m taking the Amanzite, whether he sells it to me or not.

A moment later, I’m tucking the bag of stones into my inside jacket pocket. It’s not enough—that’s obvious. I brought over two million in currency, and I’ve spent less than a quarter on the Amanzite.

It’s when I’m turning away from the stall, getting ready to get the hell out of the market, that I catch the scent.

Warm, sweet, with the most subtle hint of spice. Like snickerdoodles baking in the oven, the warm rice pudding from the vendor on Main Street. A scoop of cinnamon ice cream on the hottest summer day.

My body moves without directive from my brain, pushing through the crowd, following the scent, something like hunger working through my veins. Controlling, compulsive. It’s a call like any other need—something I can’t ignore. Something I’m readily giving in to, letting it direct me deeper and deeper into the market until the scent gets so strong that it’s nearly in front of me.

And there she is.

Kira Argent.

I haven’t seen her in five years. Somehow, she looks exactly the same, but still different. Her golden-red hair is longer, curling over her chest, her skin pale and smooth. I can see the parts of her body where baby fat has shifted, giving way to curves, the soft arch of her hips more dramatic, her chest full.

“Fuck.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until the person next to me turns and glances, their darting lizard-like eyes cutting through me. The next expletive, I manage to keep in my head. I don’t need the other shoppers at this market to pay any extra attention to me.

My eyes return to her, and I realize I’ve missed several vitally important details.

She stands on the stage in nothing but a tiny blue silk slip that clings to her body. A slit up the thigh reveals more of that creamy skin, and I feel a kernel of lust lodge itself in my chest, an undeniable urge to sink my teeth into that flesh.

To trail my tongue over her, pick up her scent, taste her. Claim her.

Memories flash through my head—Kira, in her school uniform, looking up at me with fearful eyes. Emin at my side, taunting her. The day she was cast out of the pack.

“This is a treat you don’t want to miss, folks,” the man on the stage says, swinging his arm out toward Kira, whose eyes are cast decidedly downward. “Omega is soon to go into heat. Think of it as a bulk purchase.”

He lets out a loud, snotty laugh, and my fingers tighten into fists at my sides. When I see a blush stain Kira’s cheeks, I want to stalk up to the stage and take this man out, hold his face to the floor with my boot, and make him apologize through his weeping to her.

I want to prostrate him, rip his heart out while she watches.

Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I shake the urges from my head. I’m in Grayhide territory, and the last thing I need is to risk the Amanzite I’ve already gotten my hands on.

“Starting at fifty thousand,” the man says, looking out into the crowd, waiting for someone to make a bid.

The best thing now is to leave. If I were thinking only of the pack, I’d turn on my heel, push through this crowd, andforget all about Kira Argent. Forget all about the auctioneer, the fact that she’s somehow landed herself here, for sale.

But I’m not thinking of the pack.

“I’ll do fifty.” Someone to the left of the crowd raises his paddle, laughing loudly. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

I should leave. This is not my fight—in fact, not even my own money in my pocket. This money belongs to the pack, and I’ll have to replenish it from my own treasury if I use it.

When I look up, I catch Kira’s eyes. While Emin has brown eyes, unremarkable in every way, his sister’s are like lightning, gleams of gold in the heavy, flickering light from the lamps and torches around us. Like two flames dancing ahead of me.

And I realize she’s looking right at me, recognition widening her eyes.

“Fifty-one,” I hear myself say, and then for good measure, I add, “Looks like she’ll make a good servant.”

When I return my gaze to hers, I see something all too familiar there.

---