Page 102 of Buried in Blood
They call it an auction.
But it feels like a ritual.
I sit beside Damien in the private viewing booth above it all. The glass is tinted, reflective from the outside. No one can see us. But we can see everything.
His fingers tap the armrest rhythmically and patiently. A glass of scotch in his free hand. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make a point. There’s a calmness about him tonight that curdles in my stomach. Like the eye of a storm pretending it’s not spinning.
Below us, the room is full.
Men in suits. A few women. All of them are seated in assigned rows. Lanyards at their throats. Numbered paddles at their feet. Whispers bounce off the walls like insects.
There are no smiles.
Only hunger.
Damien leans toward me, voice low and amused. “Enjoying the view?”
I don’t answer.
He clinks his glass against mine anyway. “To new beginnings.”
The lights dim further. A hush ripples through the room like a spell being cast. The stage lights flare. The first girl steps forward—Anya. Dressed in black, but not like us. Her version of black is see-through, strategic. Her arms are bare, marked in gold ink. Her face is blank. She doesn’t look up.
She doesn’t have to.
Her value has already been decided.
The host speaks in a voice that doesn’t belong to anyone here. “We begin tonight’s offering with lot one. Trained. Disciplined. Virgin.”
The word makes me flinch. Damien exhales like it’s his favorite line in a movie.
The bidding starts at $50,000.
It takes all of ten seconds to climb to $90,000.
Then $100,000.
The man who wins her is older. Balding. Wearing rings that gleam like threats. His smile is too wide.
“Sold,” the host announces. “One hundred ten thousand dollars.”
Polite applause.
The kind that sounds like knives unsheathing.
A guard escorts Anya off the stage and into the hallway to the right. The buyer follows closely behind. The door shuts. The next name is called.
And that’s when I feel Damien’s hand on my thigh.
“Almost time for our girl,” he murmurs.
I go still.
Below us, the stage lights shift slightly—cooler now, like moonlight instead of fire. The host clears his throat.
“Next offering… Lot Two.”
Ethan walks out onto the stage. I exhale a nervous breath. This is going to be a long two hours.
