No one moves.
“Excellent,” he states. “Let the previews commence.”
A hush descends in the small room, the lights dim, and a spotlight shines on the stage in the very front. I tense, holding my breath. This is it. This is when I’ll see if Marissa is one of the virgins for auction tonight. If she isn’t here, I’ll have to buy another girl, and then—
Khristos. I have no idea what then.
She better fucking be here. I am not a patient man, and what little patience I have has long since evaporated.
A woman dressed in a sheath is dragged out of a cage and paraded in front of the stage. My fucking protective instincts surface, my fists clenching when I see this beautiful woman treated like an animal. Her head is bowed, and she cries freely, rivulets of tears streaming down her face. But even through her tears I can see she’s beautiful.
She isn’t Marissa.
I don’t even hear what they say about her. She isn’t the one I’m here for, and I’ve almost dismissed her from my mind when I realize Yakov has his hand on the bidding device. Motherfucker. He already has his eyes set on this girl.
“Yakov,” I hiss low. “Do not place a bid on the first woman you see. Patience.”
He swallows hard and releases the device, nodding so slightly it’s barely noticeable.
“And anyway, you idiot, this is only the preview,” Erik says, sneering.
I hate that this asshole is my future brother. I think a good older brotherly lesson is in store for him, and soon. He needs to learn his place.
A second woman is paraded out for preview, and a third. With each innocent that shows her face to the crowd, my pulse quickens. I down my second drink in three gulps, willing myself to stay calm. I hate this. I fucking hate how these women are being treated. I need Marissa to be among this group of virgins, but I despise the very thought of her being victim to this repulsive trade.
One woman after another marches across the stage. The crowd murmurs and speaks quietly among themselves. Some are taking notes.
Marissa is not among them.
“And now,” the announcer begins. “We will begin our auction.”
I blink. Wait.
No.
That can’t be the end of the preview. This can’t be. If this is the end of the preview, then she isn’t—she isn’t here. I’m on my feet before I realize what’s happening and Yakov looks at me in surprise.
“Everything alright, Aleks?”
I wave him off and turn, disguising my abrupt reaction as a necessary break I need to take.
“Fine,” I mutter, turning away from the table. Where is she? Where the fuck is she?
I stretch my arms and loosen my shoulders, and walk to the bar. I can’t leave. I’m determined to find her, and if this auction isn’t the one, the next one must be.
The cages are now lined up on the stage, one dozen women staring at us with wide, fearful eyes, their sheaths barely covering their naked bodies. Nothing separating them from the beasts that await them but a thin, sheer piece of fabric. There are more attendants than auctions. Some will go home empty-handed. I realize the auctioneers did this on purpose. Supply and demand, as it were.
I ignore the bile that rises in my throat when the auction begins. It burns like liquid fire, and I swallow hard. I’m sick with hopeless rage and disgust. I raise a hand to one of the bartenders.
“Water,” I manage to say. “Please.”
My hopes were too high. I was convinced Marissa was in this group of women for sale, and now not only have I undergone the process of initiation into Bratva life once more, I’m forced to witness an auction in the human slave trade market. What if she isn’t here?
I catch the eye of the man who’s leading this auction, and he pauses before he speaks. I read recognition in his eyes, but of another sort. He doesn’t know who I am. He knows I don’t want to be here.
And something tells me he understands. Or did I imagine the sympathy I read in his eyes?
But as soon as the realization hits me, he drags his eyes from me, plasters on a fake grin, and beckons for the first woman to come on stage.
“Let the bidding commence.”
He chatters on about who she is and why she’s worth a starting bid nearly five times the average bid price for such “wares,” he explains.
I order a shot of Russian vodka and down it. I order a second. A third. But even the high quality shots that remind me of my homeland do nothing to dull the ache that burns in my chest. I walk back to the table and sit heavily.
Where is Marissa?
Why was my lead mistaken?
How will I ever fucking find her?