Page 7 of Dark Possession
“I need to speak to him.” I can’t let go of that shred of hope. Maybe Koka will make this right.
His lips twist, a hint of something unpleasant flashing across his expression. “That’s up to your new owner.”
“But—”
“Enough. You are done here, right? Follow me.”
“Wait!”
He pauses impatiently.
I gesture at myself. “Do I get my clothes back?”
His lips thin with what could be interpreted as a smile. “No.”
I bite back a retort and allow myself to be led out of the room and back through the maze of the building. He brings me to another room, this one lined with benches and a booth at one end that reminds me of a confession box—a small wooden structure where no one can see you, but everyone knows what happens inside.
The door creaks open.
And there he is.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t him.
He’s tall. Youngish, or at least not old—mid-thirties, maybe. Fit and well-dressed.
More significantly, he looks like he is the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants, and he doesn’t bother hiding it.
His eyes skim over me and move past, detached, as if I’m not the reason he’s here but simply a matter of business. There’s no warmth in his gaze, no humanity—just cold calculation.
He’s speaking on the phone, his tone crisp and commanding. He’s speaking in English, his tone low but clear enough for me to follow. I keep my expression neutral and uninterested. Obviously, he does not know that his new acquisition speaks English. Who am I to let him know?
“He wasn’t there. No. I need to know the next time, and date, stat. It needs to be handled.”
He ends the call abruptly, and for the first time, his gaze locks fully on me. The tension in the room thickens as he assesses me openly, his gaze traveling over me tip to toe, like a rope tightening around my throat.
After a moment, he turns toward the back of the antechamber, gesturing for me to follow. “Come.” His voice is quiet, but it’s unmistakably a command, not a suggestion.
I follow him. There’s no choice but to follow.
We exit through another door on the backside of the small booth that opens to a staircase. My legs feel heavy, and every step I take away from the booth feels like another chain being shackled to my soul.
The staircase leads to another corridor, this one much like the one I passed through when I first arrived. At its end, a door swings open to reveal the same luxurious bar where I first arrived.
Without looking at anyone, the man leads me through the tables to the door. He doesn’t stop to acknowledge anyone. Doesn’t glance at the barkeep. He walks through the space as though he owns it, as though the air around him belongs to him.
His confidence is suffocating.
Outside, the night air hits me like a slap, cold and sharp. It’s a welcome contrast to the suffocating heat of the auction space, but it does nothing to ease the chill settling in my bones.
A sleek black limo is waiting by the curb. I hesitate when a driver opens a door and motions me inside. My mind races with a thousand questions, and yet none of them feel relevant anymore. What’s left to ask? What’s left to hope for?
The buyer’s gaze turns to me, impatience flickering in its depths.
I slide into the limo, the plush interior swallowing me whole and the leather cold against my thighs, and try to keep from staring like a starstruck child. That’s not what this is about. Obviously, this man is wealthy. His car is luxurious, yes, but it’s empty—like everything else in his world. Meaningless.
The man across from me doesn’t even spare me a glance. He’s already absorbed in his phone, his world far more interesting than my presence.
I study him in silence. He’s dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that only adds to the cold, detached persona he projects. There’s something about the way he holds himself, the calculated precision of every movement. He’s in control of everything, and I’m nothing but a pawn in his game.
