Page 68 of Auctioned Innocence
Each word is a nail driven into my already fraying control. Viktor watches my reaction carefully, noting how my lips press together, how my hand grips my champagne glass with white knuckles.
“Such passion in your eyes, Volkov,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “Almost like you take this personally.”
I force Dmitri’s cold smile, loosening my grip on the glass. “Quality merchandise deserves appreciation.”
“Indeed. Though one wonders what…appreciation …might entail.” His tone is loaded with implication. “I noticed your inspection this morning was quite thorough. Very hands-on for being…limited.”
The memory plays on loop in my mind. I’d had exactly one hour with her—one hour to prepare her, to give her hope, to fight every instinct that screamed at me to grab her and run.
The blue suite had been elegant, designed to make buyers feel comfortable while they “evaluated” their potential purchases. Sofia had been waiting when I arrived, dressed in something cream-colored that made her look like a virgin sacrifice.
The sight of her in that room—my Sofia reduced to merchandise—had nearly shattered me.
“Principessa,” I’d breathed, dropping Dmitri’s accent the moment the door closed. We had maybe thirty seconds before the cameras would seem suspicious.
She’d turned, and the relief in her eyes nearly made my legs give out. “Dante.” Just my name, but it carried everything—fear, hope, trust.
I’d crossed to her quickly, making it look like an inspection. My hands had found her arms, checking for injuries while I whispered against her ear. “Are you hurt? Have they touched you?”
“No. Not yet.” Her voice had been steady, but I’d felt the tremor in her shoulders. “The private viewings…they’re getting worse. More invasive.”
The thought of other men’s hands on her had made me see red. “Tonight,” I’d promised, my fingers ghosting over her collarbone where makeup covered a bruise—probably from their rough handling during transport. “When the lights go out, east exit. Count to ten, then run. Don’t stop for anything.”
“How long?” she’d whispered, her lips barely moving as I traced what looked like an examination down her arm.
“Marco’s team is in position. Irish backup on the perimeter. I’ll get you out.”
“The others—” it was a plea.
“All of them,” I murmured. Like hell I would leave these poor girls to suffer a fate worse than death. “ I promise.”
She’d leaned into my touch then, just for a moment, and I’d had to fight every instinct not to gather her close. “I knew you’d come,” she said softly. “I never doubted.”
The trust in her voice had nearly unmanned me. “I’ll always come for you, Sofia.Always.”
“Dante—”
That’s when Viktor had burst in, his eyes sharp as they took in the scene. Sofia had composed herself instantly, stepping back with just the right amount of nervousness for a girl being examined by a potential buyer. But not before Viktor caught something—the familiarity in our positioning, the trust that went beyond buyer and merchandise.
Now, hours later, that moment hangs between us like a loaded gun. Viktor knows something’s wrong.
Another girl—Natalie—is led onto the stage next, moving like a sleepwalker in her emerald dress. The moment she appears, the room’s energy shifts—these predators sense complete submission, and it excites them.
“Look at that compliance,” someone whispers behind me. “Perfectly trained already.”
“No spirit left to break,” agrees another voice. “Some buyers prefer that.”
The bidding for her is brutal and swift—these men sense her complete compliance and bid accordingly. Paddles flash up around the room like a feeding frenzy. Five million. Five-five. Six.
“Beautiful work,” Viktor comments, watching Natalie stand motionless under the lights. “Madame Rouge has such…effective methods. I heard she broke this one with just words. No physical damage at all—very economical.”
He’s probing again, watching for my reaction to the casual discussion of psychological torture. I keep my expression neutral, though every word makes me want to throw up.
“Efficient,” I agree, as if discussing a business process rather than the destruction of a young woman’s mind.
The Saudi prince in the front row raises his paddle with obvious satisfaction. Around him, his entourage nods approvingly—they’ve been shopping for this type of “merchandise.”
Broken. Compliant. Already defeated.
