Page 5 of Dark Possession
Women at these auctions usually fall into two categories: the terrified and the resigned. But this one? She’s neither. There’s defiance in her eyes, something sharp and unyielding beneath the surface. A challenge.
I tilt my head, studying her. Her skin is pale with a soft blush.
She doesn’t belong here. Not in this room, not on that stage. She knows it, too.
My fingers tighten around the notepad, but I don’t write anything. My mind is no longer on my mission—it’s on her.
Why is she here?
I catch movement in my periphery—Sergei Novikov, seated with the air of a man who believes himself untouchable. He leans forward slightly, his gaze fixed on the girl on stage. Interest flickers in his eyes, a silent claim forming before he even bids. This isn’t just about her—it’s about dominance. About making sure everyone in this room sees him win. But he underestimates me. He wants her.
I shouldn’t care.
I should let the auction play out, stick to the plan, watch and learn.
Sergei places the first bid, his voice calm, measured. I expected nothing less. He’s been watching her, and now he wants to claim her. I wait a beat, then raise my hand—a subtle movement, but enough to make my presence known.
Sergei’s lips press together as he counters, his gaze flicking toward me. This is a game now, one I intend to win.
Another bid. Another challenge.
The room grows quieter with each back-and-forth. The tension hums between us, unspoken but palpable.
Then, I give the auctioneer a single nod.
He knows me. He knows what that means.
The gavel slams down. “Sold!”
Pedro, the auctioneer, steps back, an amused glint in his eye. We served together in the Irish military, both of us drawn into this life when the war ended, just in different ways. Pedro was always a fast talker, a man who could sell water to a drowning man if given the chance. Now, instead of orders on a battlefield, he moves people like merchandise.
A ripple of murmurs spreads through the crowd. I don’t miss the way Sergei’s glare burns into me. I’ve just made a move I didn’t intend to make, one he didn’t anticipate.
That’s fine. Maybe it’ll even work to my advantage.
The girl’s eyes lock onto mine as she’s led off the stage, her expression unreadable. I read people well, but she’s a mystery wrapped in intrigue, and I don’t like not knowing.
Before I can process it further, the presence of someone new edges into my awareness—purposeful, eager. A man sidles up next to me, grinning, the kind of grin that expects something in return.
“Lev Ivanovich,” he says smoothly. “It’s always a pleasure to see you at these events.”
I glance at him. Denis Mikhailov. A businessman with deep pockets but no real power. He wants to be in my orbit, wants the prestige of an association, but I have no interest in indulging him.
“I wasn’t aware you attended these often,” he continues, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I must say, you have a good eye. That one—” he gestures toward the stage, where the girl was moments ago “—very interesting choice. If I had known you were in the market, I might have let you in on some private acquisitions I’ve been arranging.”
I remain silent, letting the weight of my stare settle on him. But he’s not easily deterred. He takes my lack of response as an invitation to keep talking.
“Of course, I know a man of your stature has his own ways of acquiring what he wants,” he chuckles. “Still, there’s something to be said for discretion, for careful selection. I have access to—”
“Enough.”
The word is quiet, but it carries more weight than any threat. His mouth snaps shut instantly.
I don’t move, don’t even break eye contact. “Go.”
He hesitates for only a second before nodding sharply and retreating without another word.
A man nearby glances at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. I can’t think of his name, but I know he also has deep pockets. Maybe an oil tycoon? "Didn’t think you were the impulsive type, Lev."
