Standing in that spotlight, blinded by it, but knowing that beyond there were men watching me, delighting in my humiliation, it caused a spear of shame to lance deep inside of me.
Virgin.
Now they all know I’m a virgin, not that it matters. It’s a small thing in the grand scheme of things, but it still stings me with embarrassment. That’s supposed to be a private thing.
I’m not even sure how they found out.
Did they interview people at my high school? Pay off a gynecologist?
I shake my head, trying to push those concerns away as the giant metal gates start to creak open.
But then my mind just surges back to the moment Artem Elgort leapt from the balcony and into the light.
Standing there like a giant Russian bear, all seven foot of him pulsing with … with what?
Anger?
Hate?
Lust?
I almost laugh, the thought is so absurd. The only reason I was being auctioned is because I’m a virgin. I’m the ugly duckling compared to those other poor girls who were sold tonight. I’ve got lumps and bumps where they’ve only got sleek, shiny flesh. I’m the odd one out, like I’ve always been, the anomaly.
But when Artem strode over to me, his jaws tight and almost square, his eyes a penetrating oaken shade, his body pulsing with irrepressible tensed muscles, the fabric of his iron suit straining … when Artem approached me with his steel hair and a whisper of something in his eyes, for a second I thought I saw it.
Desire.
Then he took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders, and I felt the thrumming inside of him, the vibrations of his body.
Ten million.
Why?
As we drive up to the house – more of a mansion, a Disney-style sprawling wonderland of a building, draped in moonlight – my mind does all kinds of flips to try and work out why he would buy me.
I never knew my parents, but now I’m starting to wonder if perhaps Artem did, in some way, and when he saw me there—he had to save me? The daughter of his old friends, now dead? The orphan left behind?
It’s a weak theory, but it makes way more sense than the idea that Artem Elgort, one of the most powerful men in the city, the world, richer than God and more handsome than Adonis, would want me for me.
It doesn’t matter anyway. He bought you. He’s just as bad as the others.
I try to hammer that into my mind as the garage door opens automatically, sliding from the grey Medieval rock of Artem’s estate, a piece of modern technology incongruously taking a chunk out of the building … and then sliding closed behind us as the overhead lights blink on, revealing a vast cavern filled with sports cars and jeeps and motorbikes.
As a girl who’s been poor her whole life – orphanages, brief stints on the street, a series of shattered hopes and dreams – the sight of all this wealth can’t help but make me draw in a gasping breath.
The driver glances in the rear view, a small smile on his face.
“Yes,” he says. “Mr. Elgort is a very wealthy man. A good man, too. You’re very lucky to be here.”
“A good man,” I repeat.
I almost add, “But a good man wouldn’t buy a person. A good man wouldn’t own a person. A good man wouldn’t be the boss of the Bratva.”
But I don’t, because if there’s one thing you learn in a life like mine, it’s how to survive.
And that’s what I intend to do.
At all costs.
The driver takes me to a room that is far nicer than I ever could’ve imagined. I had envisioned a cell similar to the ones the auctioneer kept us in at the club.
Bed, four walls, a roof, a toilet, nothing else.
But this is like a hotel suite.
There’s a four poster bed with dangling purple silk drapes, curtains, whatever the heck they’re called, and wide French windows overlooking the rear garden. In the moonlight I can make out the length of the garden, something that could be a fountain, water flickering.
There’s an ensuite that’s all sleek marble with a waterfall shower and heated flooring. The closets are already full of clothes, in assorted sizes, and I’m no fashionista, but even I recognize the brand names.
The driver leaves me and – click – locks the door behind him.
I go to it, testing the handle.
The door rattles in the frame, but it stays locked.
I’m on the third floor. Sheer drops all around.
Perhaps I could survive the fall, but then what? I limp my way to the wall, hop over that, and then limp my way past the spotlights and the guards?
I sigh and walk over to the bed, sitting down, tempted to just lie back on the silk and let it eat me up.