Don't Promise (Don't 3)

The MC cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

It started rapidly.

I tried to follow the voices as they called out, but in the pit of darkness it was impossible. Some sounded older than others. I even heard an American or two mixed in. I squinted, feeling my heart race. I tried to ground myself. I tried to breathe.

I tried to pretend that auctioning myself off for a night to Galona’s secret society was exactly what I wanted to do.

3

Damon

“That is the one,” Ashford suggested, pointing to the next number on his ticket. It was creased down the middle. I don’t know why he folded it in his pocket rather than just leaving it on the table in between tenders. “Your type. I can tell.”

I was impatient. Tonight’s tally wasn’t impressive. None of them held my attention. They were all the same. Cleavage. Poufy hair. More makeup than a cover model. At this point I didn’t know what would hold my attention. Why had I thought another gala would give me something? Push me? Excite me? Clearly a six-month break hadn’t awakened a renewed interest.

“I don’t have a type.” I strummed my fingers on the table.

“That could change after tonight.”

“I didn’t see her,” I admitted. Nothing stood out in the first-round viewing. Evidently he was referring to seven-seven-seven.

“Invest,” he coaxed.

“I have invested plenty in this country,” I snapped.

Ashford’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Fine. Then I’ll invest.”

I picked up my bourbon. Malcom Caron continued with his description of the next tally. I listened indifferently. I didn’t care where she was from or what her favorite movie was. Ashford could have her. He could have all of them. It had taken too long to get to this point. Tonight’s gala was a complete fuck up. I may have stopped Ashford from saying something to Lesage, but I’d ring him tomorrow. This was a waste of a million-dollar membership.

I slapped Ash on the shoulder. “Have a good night. Hope your tender goes well.”

“You’re not staying?” he whispered.

“What’s the point?”

I could fuck any beautiful girl I wanted. I didn’t need a damn cat and mouse game to give me a hard-on. Fuck this.

I pushed to stand when seven-seven-seven walked on stage.

My eyes followed the spotlight by complete fucking accident. I had every intention of leaving. Of taking my security detail, grabbing the last of the bottle of bourbon from behind the bar, and sleeping alone tonight.

But then she walked on stage.

Fuck.

No one had looked so out of place up there before.

Wide frightened eyes. Pink lips that quivered slightly. She pressed her palms into her sides. It wasn’t what the other girls did. No woman had ever stood on the stage like she’d rather jump off and run to the closest exit.

The women who came here wanted to be here. They wanted this room and everything it stood for. Titles. Money. Power. Opportunists might have been a name for them. Fucking gold diggers was more accurate.

They didn’t get more than one night. It was a mutual agreement protected by a legal document. No phones or photography were allowed. The Titan had shut down any potential problems long ago. Tallies were vetted. And membership was exclusive. The women who took their one shot had an angle. They had convinced themselves they were worthy of a prince or a Hollywood star. They thought this was their one night to convince him too. Fools.

But seven-seven-seven wasn’t that kind of woman.

Malcom cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

I slid into my seat and picked up the baton with my crest on it. One look at her kick-started something primal under my skin. I couldn’t explain it, but it drove me to raise my baton. Fight for what I wanted. Protect what should be mine. Every man here was identified by his family crest. That’s how dated Galona was. Crests. Family trees that could be traced for centuries. Old money. Ancient money.