The Pawn (Endgame 1)

I don’t even have to push the dress away from me. I let my hands fall to my sides, and the soft material falls down my body, a caress as solid as Gabriel’s golden gaze.

“Jesus,” the photographer mutters, staring at my plain white bra, the white panties.

I manage not to cringe. This isn’t what a sexy woman would wear. This isn’t going to earn anything at auction. “I’m sorry,” I whisper miserably.

I’ve only just started this and I’m already failing.

“It’s perfect,” Gabriel says, sounding almost reverent. “You’re perfect.”

Goose bumps rise across my skin. It takes everything in me not to snatch my dress, not to run from the room. Maybe he does need to ensure my cooperation. I’m already trembling, and all they’re doing is looking. How will I stand it when a strange man climbs on top of me?

I look away, at a point on the plain whitewashed walls. “How should I stand?”

My voice is stiff, betraying my nerves.

Footsteps come closer, and I know without looking that it’s Gabriel. It might be something about his gait, graceful and confident. More likely it’s the way my body electrifies whenever he’s near.

He touches my chin and turns my face to him. “I’ll show you.”

There’s something almost encouraging in his eyes, a strange infusion of strength. I shouldn’t trust it, shouldn’t trust him, but I find myself standing straighter anyway. “Okay.”

“We’ll start with some shots from the front.” He moves to stand behind me, brushing my hair over the tops of my breasts, arranging the heavy locks over my face. “The advance pictures will hide your face.”

“They won’t know who I am?” It’s a small relief that there won’t be half-naked pictures of me—identifiable pictures, including my face—circulating in the city.

“If they want to know who you are, they’ll have to pay ten grand.”

“Ten grand,” I gasp, shame and elation warring within me. If enough people show up, I can pay the real estate tax bill. “How many men do you think will come?”

“Damon will keep the attendance fees.”

Of course he will. He isn’t hosting the auction out of the goodness of his heart. A perverse amusement rises in me, imagining this as a charity auction—my family’s tattered dignity the cause. We could set up little cardboard boxes for quarters at gas stations. Maybe organize a bake sale. “And I’ll get the amount that’s bid?”

“Minus his percentage,” Gabriel says smoothly.

“Hey,” I say, half turning to face him. “I’m the one doing all the work.”

“Never fear, little virgin. You’ll make plenty selling your wares.” He turns me to face the camera again, this time tipping my head forward so my hair creates a veil over my face.

His palms run down my arms, sending sparks of sensation over my skin. He nudges them forward, plumping my breasts. It’s a strange position, almost like prayer.

“Stay,” he murmurs, his breath soft against my neck.

Then he steps away, and the photographer starts clicking. My stomach turns over as I imagine strange old men looking at these pictures, evaluating my body, judging my monetary worth.

When the clicking stops, Gabriel steps forward and turns me sideways. He lifts my hands so that they rest on my head, elbows forward, revealing the shape of my breasts, my butt. Gabriel only touches me on my arms, and even then he’s businesslike. Weirdly respectful, considering the situation. He could take the opportunity to feel me up. I couldn’t stop him. Instead he gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back.

More clicking, some flashes from the equipment stationed around the room.

I close my eyes tight, waiting for it to be over.

“Hmm,” Gabriel says, his voice coming from near the camera. Is he looking at the pictures through the lens? What does he see when he looks at me? “Let’s try some with her facing away.”

They must not be good. That’s my only thought as I turn to face the wall like a child being punished. I’m so inherently unsexy that only a picture of my backside could possibly appeal to anyone. Panicked thoughts race through me, making me tremble, making me shake.

His hands land on my shoulders, and I suck in a ragged breath. “This isn’t going to work,” I whisper, half to him, half to myself. “I’ll never be able to go through with it.”

He speaks without turning me around, both of us facing the wall. “You said you’re a virgin, but exactly how inexperienced are we talking?”

The most embarrassing part is that I don’t know how to answer that question. Girls in my school whispered about what they did with their boyfriends. Lord knows Harper has told me some dirty things, but they almost felt like a made-up story to me. People don’t really do those things to each other, do they?

I would find out soon enough. I’d experience them firsthand.