Page 32 of Auctioned

It’s back again now. More prominent, if possible. The longer I stand here, the chill goes deeper. Freezes my bones. Makes my teeth gnash.

“Don’t grind them.” Clara grabs my chin. Her gloved hand is soft, her voice scolding. “You’ll chip your teeth. They’ll be angry. You don’t want that.”

“Oh, really?” Though I’m talking to her, my eyes scan the room. Searching the walls. The ceiling. The air vents.

There has to be a camera somewhere here. There had to be one in my cell.

James is watching. Has to be him.

He can save you, a voice whispers in my head.

Maybe. As cruel and psychotic as he is, he’s my best chance. If I have to let him do things to me to get out of here, then so be it.

I’m attracted to him, meaning I could survive this. I could use my virgin pussy or whatever to save myself and get the hell away from all of them.

“Really, what?” Clara asks.

I fix my eyes back on her. Narrow them. “So now what I want matters?”

“You want to live, don’t you?” Her brown gaze is severe. The other two are behind her, heads bowed, hands folded in front of them.

“I’m too valuable for them to kill me.” I’m naked. Breasts, pussy, and ass on display. Doesn’t make me any less human. I deserve to be treated as one. “Fuck you. Fuck them. I’ll grind my teeth into dust.”

“Notthem.Theywon’t hurt you.” The wordsthemandtheyaren’t spoken as a threat. She says it reverently. She likes the Hawthornes. “The highest bidder. They won’t take kindly to damaged goods.”

In the cell last night, James talked about the auction.

“Sacrifices” is what he called us.

What he called me.

Good little sacrifice.

Clara’s words and the way she says them suggest she knows. She’s participated in these barbaric acts before.

I stare at her, assessing her age. Lines wrinkle her forehead and the space over her mouth. Beneath the layers of makeup, I find a couple of dark spots on her cheeks. Age spots.

No, this isn’t her first sick rodeo. I’m not sure if it’s even the second.

“They hurt the women? Here?”

“One buyer did,” she whispers, then raises a hand, snapping her fingers and barks, “Get to it.”

The other women’s heels clink on the floor as they scurry off.

“Over forty years ago.” During James and Oliver’s fathers’ initiations. Bastards. “She bit her nail. Ruined the manicure we had worked on that morning. He ordered us to remove all of her nails so she’d learn never to bite them again. Since she was his, our bosses allowed it. But don’t you worry. Your nails won’t be painted, as per Mr. Hawthorne’s orders.”

My eyes bulge. My body goes into shock, knees buckling.

The distress I’m in makes Clara’s job easier. She wastes no time dragging me to the tall bed in the center of the room. To the only furniture in here other than the metal table positioned next to it.

Clara grabs me gently by the shoulders, guiding my naked body on top of the table with paper sprawled on the bed.

I get lost inside my head almost instantly.

My survival instincts are a living thing inside my body. They rebel against my dissociation. They push against my ribs and tell me to run, run, run. I have to do something. Like punching Clara, who stands close to my face. Sprint toward the door, try the lock.

And run.

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