"Bid accepted." My monitor turns off automatically. No more than one girl per customer per auction. Thank fuck, I think as the door to the room opens, and the man from before comes in.
"If you'll follow me to the cashier," he says. I stand, and once again, the blindfold is put on me. I'm led around again, and then it’s removed. I'm staring at an older man in a cage just like you'd find in a Vegas casino.
"Mr. McCrea. I have your electronic transfer information right here. The fee for the girl and transaction fees are itemized below. The girl's fee will be directly deposited into her account from the general fund here. She will do whatever she wants to with her portion. This is an indefinite contract between the two of you. Whether or not the relationship is consummated or you two marry, you have agreed to take possession of her. This is not something we've done before. It’s highly unusual, but I see that you've given Madam Liltith your word that 21 will be safe in your care. It’s highly unusual indeed,” he repeats, shaking his head. His British accent makes every word he says sound much more severe than it would be coming from another. “Typically, all of this is worked out after you take her home. However, you may have noticed 21 was the only girl wearing clothes. That is because she is only seventeen. She turns eighteen on August 21st, exactly three months from today. She is an emancipated minor, thus able to enter into contracts but not a sexual relationship with you. She has no problem doing any household chores, party planning, or light secretarial work. She graduated from high school a few months ago and has been accepted to Georgia Tech on a full-ride cheerleading scholarship in the fall. She has a passport and a New York driver’s license. You’ll want to get that changed within thirty days, according to state law. Do you have any questions?"
Fuck, that was a lot to process.
"No,” I say, though I am sure that I do.
"Excellent. Sign here, here, and here." I do so with the pen he hands me. "She'll be brought out immediately. The exit to the parking garage is just through that door." With that, he pulls the shade down, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Soon after, the door opens, and 67 comes in with the girl. My fucking girl. Possessive thoughts like I’ve never known fill my head at the mere sight of her.
"Have a nice life," 67 says before turning on her heel and leaving through the door they came through.
"Hi," she says quietly. Her eyes don’t meet mine, and I definitely don’t like that.
"Hello," I say thickly. "What is your name?"
"Riley Maeve Fitzgerald," she says. A good Irish girl. Ma will like that. "You?"
"Samson Bartholomew McCrea,” I answer just like she did, smiling at her. Her eyes widen. "I see my reputation precedes me."
"It does." She squares her shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. My angel isn’t afraid of me.
"I will never hurt you, Riley," I assure her. I never saw what I do as a deterrent before, but I do now. I don't want her to be scared of me. The media portrays me as a savage contract killer for the McCrea family, which my dad is head of, who gets away with murder on technicalities. This is true, but I only kill men who deserve to die. She nods. I look at her again. She's still wearing the dress from before. She has a purse, a fireproof file box, and a small tattered bag slung over her shoulder.
"Where are the rest of your things?" I ask.
"This is it," she says, her pale cheeks turning bright pink. Not for long. Suddenly, I want to do nothing more than spoil the fuck out of her.
"Let's go home," I say, taking the box from her hand and the tattered bag from her shoulder before taking her hand in mine.
"Home," she whispers excitedly, tears in her eyes.
I wonder what could have happened to her for her to get this desperate and, my savage, cold, dark heart thaws for her and her alone.
Chapter Two
“Darkness was all I needed. Light and goodness just complicate things, but you’re a complication I didn’t anticipate.” -SM.
Riley
I take a deep breath when we are finally in his car. The plush leather seats feel like they are hugging me. It’s been so long since I had a hug. I rest my head on the headrest and close my eyes for a minute. Just a minute, I tell myself. I just need a minute to collect my thoughts. To think about the fact that I was just bought and paid for by Samson McCrea. The Samson McCrea. Last year was the worst year of my life, to say the least. To really understand me, you have to know about my past. See, my father is a low-level foot soldier with the Irish Mob in New York. He made me feel like I was nothing. He thought too highly of himself if you ask me. His job didn’t give him any perks or any money, really. We lived in a two-bedroom twelfth-floor walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen. He had rage issues, and no one was safe from his beatings. Especially not me and my mom. I’ll never understand what a sweet person was doing with that monster, but she was. And she took every beating he gave her with a smile. Later, I’d learn why but to my younger self, I couldn’t understand why she stayed. Then one night, things got out of control, and I could do nothing but watch as he killed her. On Christmas Eve, my dad came home lit. He was completely blitzed on whiskey and cocaine. He stunk like cheap perfume and sex. He dragged me from my bed at three in the morning into the living room, where he handcuffed me to the radiator. He kicked and punched me for close to ten minutes. My face was bleeding, my eye socket and nose broken, but he didn’t stop until my mom came into the room.