Page 86 of Auctioned

I have to remember what happened to me. Why I’m here.

I do.

Topher and his dad locked me in a cell. Baylor. The auction. His dad bought me. His dad brought me back to the cell. He’s been torturing me there. Taking care of me there.

He’s been mean and cruel. He’s been my only human connection during my time in captivity.

Truth is, he’s been the only person to look after me in a really long time. In his cold, unhinged way, he’s given me what no one has since my parents were alive.

He’s not safe.

He still has secrets. I passed out before he could finish his story. Either that or he would’ve told me it was none of my business.

This is the real problem, isn’t it? When he doesn’t feel like sharing, he closes off.

He’ll keep things from me, and I won’t know what I’m going up against until it’s too late.

Putting my life in this madman’s hands isn’t just a risk. It’s a suicide mission.

Sure, he hasn’t killed me. Yet.

He hasn’t been interested in my consent, either.

Then again, he didn’t like it when I told him I hated him.

Ugh, I’ll go crazy if I think about it for another second. Worse still, these thoughts won’t be what gets me out of here.

Whereverhereis.

What is this room, exactly?

Sure as fuck doesn’t feel like the bed in my cell. The sheets are too soft. The bed is too warm.

Where did James put me now?

I’m still in the mansion; I’m positive about that.

James is a controlling, possessive psycho. He won’t ever give me to anyone else.

Little by little, as inconspicuously as possible, I open my eyes. I notice, lying on my side, that I’m on a firm bed.

In front of me is a set of large, arched windows. Rain patters on the glass.

Silver moonbeams filter into the room, offering just enough light for me to see the leather armchair in the corner. The thick, dark rug that covers most of the floor. The fireplace.

A few feet ahead, there are double doors that lead to another room or the hallway. A bathroom, possibly. They’re smaller than the other doors in the mansion, at least the ones on the main floor.

A lock of hair has fallen over my cheek sometime during the night. I notice that as well, and it doesn’t look greasy like it did yesterday.

Another clue as to what happened to me while I’ve been out. For no other reason but sheer curiosity, I sniff my hair. A manly scent seeps in.

I press my lips shut to silence a gasp.

He washed me.

Oh my God.

A comforting thought slices through the rising panic. He hasn’t fucked me. I clench my thighs, and nothing hurts. I’m sensitive, not sore.

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