Page 5 of Bratva Bidder
“Six five.”
The man in the charcoal suit tilts his head slightly, amused, and calls out, “Eight.”
The room quiets. Other bidders hesitate.
I close my eyes, trying to stay steady on my feet.
Not him. Anyone but him.
The auctioneer beams. “Eight, gentlemen. Eight million for lot nineteen. Do I hear eight point five?”
Silence.
A heavy, expectant kind.
I feel the shift. The way the room subtly leans in his direction, ready to concede. And he knows it. That smug, twisted smile spreads wider across his face as he leans back in his seat, the picture of confidence.
My stomach turns. He’s going to win me.
My body tenses like it already knows what that will mean. I can feel it in my bones—the violence, the power games, the slow erasure of every piece of me. I swallow hard, fighting the instinct to run, knowing there’s nowhere to go.
The auctioneer lifts the gavel. “Going once…”
My breath catches.
“Going tw?—”
“Ten.”
Whoever says the number doesn’t shout it, but he doesn’t need to. Silence descends over the room.
The crowd jolts. The auctioneer’s voice stutters. “Ten…million?”
Even the broken-nose man turns his head sharply, his eyes narrowing.
I blink, stunned. Who?—?
My eyes scan the crowd, heartbeat thudding against my ribs. Row after row of suits and shadows blur past until?—
There. Back row.
He’s not leaning forward like the others. Not holding a paddle. Just sitting. Composed. Still. As if this entire night is just a formality he’s been waiting to end.
The spotlight shifts slightly, catching on his face.
Him.
He’s younger than most here. Thirties, maybe. Dark blond hair, sharp jaw, blue eyes that glow like ice through shadow. His expression is unreadable, but his presence is unmistakable. The kind of stillness that screams danger more than motion ever could.
And the moment our eyes meet?—
Something hits me.
A jolt. Not recognition, not exactly. But something close. Like a memory I can’t place. Like a shadow on the edge of a dream.
For one breathless second, everything else disappears. The room. The crowd. The bidding. It’s just him and me, and a flicker of something I can’t explain tightening in my chest.
Who are you?
