Page 2 of Bratva Bidder
I fix the strap of my dress. It’s black, silk, and slithers down my body like oil. Sleek. Expensive. Designed to distract. But all I can feel is exposed.
My attention turns back to the auction. They’re bidding on the girl before me now. She’s tall, blonde, with trembling hands anda fixed, empty smile. I don’t know her name. None of us share those. Doesn’t matter. We’re not here to make friends.
We’re here to be sold.
I hear the auctioneer’s voice rise with fake charm, coaxing higher numbers out of bored men in tailored suits. “Lot eighteen, gentlemen. Unspoiled. Trained in three languages. Look at those legs…”
My stomach flips. I glance down at my own dress again. It fits like second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination. My hair’s been curled, lips stained deep red, heels sharp enough to pierce bone.
I hate all of it.
She walks past me as the curtain closes behind her. The girl. Lot eighteen. Her eyes are glassy. She looks…not broken, but shelved. Like she’s floated outside her own body and doesn’t want to come back in.
The stage manager nods at me next. Lot nineteen. My turn.
I take one breath, then another. And I step onto the stage.
The lights hit me like a slap.
Blinding. Hot. White. I blink against the onslaught but keep walking, one slow step at a time, like I’m not walking into the belly of a wolf pack.
The venue is a secret one, buried beneath a luxury hotel in downtown Los Angeles—underground, both literally and legally. Red velvet lines the walls. The floor is obsidian-black marble. A glass chandelier hangs overhead, shimmering with blood-colored light. The room itself is shaped like an amphitheater, every seat designed to look down on the stage.
On me.
I can’t see faces—not clearly—but I feel them. Dozens of them. Watching. Judging.
Bratva men, mostly. Buryakov affiliates. Some allies from other syndicates. Every single one of them dangerous. Powerful. Predatory.
The announcer says something smooth and vile to warm up the room, but I don’t hear him. My pulse is pounding too loud.
I stop at the center of the stage and raise my chin. My body is tense. My spine straight. Every part of me radiates what I want them to believe—that I chose this. That I’m in control.
A lie, of course. But a beautiful one.
I glance to the side. The girl who went before me is still standing offstage, her buyer’s name already being logged. A new girl follows behind me, eyes wide and hollow.
We’re not names here. We’re numbers. Lots. Merchandise.
And the worst part? Some of them want this.
Some of them think this is their shot at luxury, protection, even love.
I know better.
The spotlight pins me in place as the announcer’s voice slithers across the room like smoke. I don’t listen. I don’t need to.
“Gentlemen,” he purrs, “lot nineteen. A rare offering from within our own circles. Nadya Makarova—daughter of Pyotr Makarov, former consigliere to the Buryakov Bratva. Old blood. Bratva-born. She comes with pedigree, poise, and potential.”
I taste blood in my mouth from biting my tongue.
“Untouched.”
I taste blood in my mouth from biting my tongue.Untouched.That’s what sells, right?
“She’s here on behalf of her family,” he continues. “A legacy name. A Bratva daughter—one who understands discretion and obedience. Strong enough to survive, soft enough to please.”
The crowd murmurs, amused. Approving.
