Page 11 of Dragon Flames
Rupert’s attention should’ve been considered a privilege.
My family gave me up without even a word of protest, and I was sent to prison.
Only to end up at a debutante ball ten years later.
It would be ironic…if only it wasn’t so pathetically sad.
Most of the other women on display are moving from a protected, sheltered home and heading directly into the arms of a man who will pamper her like a princess.
It’s a fairy tale for them, a chance for a new life as queen of her own castle.
For me, it’s a nightmare.
As the festivities draw to a close, men are smiling and women have a sparkle of hope in their eyes, a flush of joy making their cheeks rosy.
And one by one, they’re sold off to prospective buyers.
Oh, they call it a dowry, but that’s just slapping a nice name on the barbaric practice. Part of the money goes to the family, while a percentage is set aside for the woman so she will have enough money to create a nest in the hopes of bringing a new life into the world.
Despite my age, I’ve never been through a heat. I’ve been repeatedly told I won’t understand why this whole archaic system is in place until it happens to me.
When I was younger, I believed the bullshit.
Now, I just hope I never meet the man who triggers my heat.
I watch as the women are auctioned off one by one. Not all of them are sold to the highest bidder. Sometimes, the women are given the final choice.
Until they age out.
Then, that choice is taken from them.
I suspect that’s why I was never permitted to attend until now.
I’m straight-out being sold.
If it was anyone else but Lord Gresky, I might see it as an alternative to prison. A chance for some peace and happiness.
But I know better.
If I don’t find a way to escape, death is going to be my only hope.
I’m the last to appear on the stage, the least desirable of the batch. The spotlight is so bright, I can’t see the audience, which I consider a small blessing. Refusing to be cowed, I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin in defiance.
If I’m going to die, I will take that fucker with me—just like I did to his son.
“Here we have Miss Felicia Florence Albright. Age twenty-five.” The announcer’s voice crackles over the microphone. “Do we have a starting bid?”
Absolute silence follows the statement for almost a full minute, and fury burns my cheeks at the insult.
“One dollar,” Lord Gresky’s voice booms across the area, quickly followed by amused chatter and laughter.
I grit my teeth against the need to sink my fangs into his neck and rip out his throat. Talons bite into my fingers, and tiny droplets of blood splatter my red dress while I fight the urge to lay waste to those who mock me.
The announcer clears her throat, uncomfortable and flustered at the turn of events. “We have one dollar. Would anyone else like to claim this exquisite creature?”
A short man dashes onstage, more of a waddle as he comes to a stop next to the announcer. After hearing some furious whispers and a gasp, I twist to observe them, not daring to hope, but still curious.
The woman straightens with a bright smile, her hands fluttering around her as she speaks into the microphone. “It seems that Miss Felicia Florence Albright is being claimed by right of a mating match. The bidder pledges one million dollars.”
