There are a few women in the audience. Would the women bid on me, or are they just arm candy?
On the opposite side of Landon, I see Ivan Tabakov in a large wingback chair. Candy is perched on his lap, her heels tipped over at his feet, her toes curled up on his leg. She looks like a child with large blue eyes and fairy-tale hair.
Another woman looks even younger than me, her dress revealing more than it hides. She hangs on the arm of a gray-haired man like I imagine she would at some high-rollers casino, both glamorous and mercenary.
The other woman appears older, beautiful but hard. Almost cruel. She sits at one of the only small leather love seats with another man. Their sides touch intimately—husband and wife? Both of their gazes examine my body with mean promise.
It wouldn’t only be the husband who hurt me; that much I know.
“One full month,” Damon says, circling behind me. “That’s how long you would have to train this lovely specimen in the erotic arts. Such thirsty…intellect, they said. What would you do with her?”
“Play chess,” Gabriel says from the back of the room, his voice droll.
The men in the room laugh, and I feel my stomach turn over.
Apparently this is the cue Damon needs to stop pretending it’s my intellect they’re interested in. He begins describing my physical characteristics with a bluntness that steals my breath.
“Her skin is pale milky perfection, her hair’s a mix of gold and copper. She also has very large…eyes, as you can see. And she narrows most delectably…on the bridge of her nose. Then flares again…on her wide mouth.”
He isn’t talking about my face. He’s talking about my body. My hands are clenched at my sides, my entire body strumming with the urge to flee. I can’t forget the rouge on my nipples. Everyone will see them before this auction ends.
“Take it off,” one of the men yells, his voice slurred.
“Do you want to see more?” Damon asks, his tone solicitous, as if this is a polite affair. Instead it feels like a bullfight. I’m the animal, made to run and run while my body bleeds.
“Yes,” they shout, stomping their feet. It feels like a riot. “Take it off!”
Damon doesn’t look worried, though, merely pleased. He touches the small hidden clasp on my shoulder and the top of the dress falls away, revealing the downy slopes of my breasts, the white lace of the bra.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
Another flick of his fingers at my back, and the bra slides forward. He nudges gently, moving the straps down my arms, tickling my skin with lace, making me prick with shame. My arms cling to the material until it hangs nearly at my wrists.
Painfully, almost against my will, I unclench my fists. The bra falls to the floor.
My pink nipples tighten in the exposed air, and the crowd roars their approval.
“They would fill a man’s hands, don’t you think?” he calls over the crowd.
There’s more shouting, more salacious speculation about the rest of me. What color would my pussy lips be? How tight is my cunt? I stand very still, unable to glance at Uncle Landon—to see the condemnation in his eyes. Or worse, the lust. I can’t even look for Gabriel. Is he shouting with the rest of the men? Is his voice demanding that I be passed around for inspection? I can’t bear to know, so I stare straight ahead, the yellow glow of the lamps blurring as my eyes sheen with tears. A deep breath. I won’t cry in front of them. They paid for my body, not for my despair.
“Let’s start the bidding at twenty thousand,” Damon says, and almost every placard rises in the air. The sea of red paddles, each with a black engraved number, makes my stomach churn.
Damon turns into a master auctioneer, speaking faster and faster.
“Can I get twenty-five, twenty-five? I have twenty-five. Thirty! What about thirty-five? You’ll have this girl for thirty days and thirty nights, yours to do as you please, surely that’s worth—thirty-five! Do I have forty-five?”
My gaze darts around the room, trying to keep up with the bids. The number goes higher and higher, and as if we’re climbing a mountain, the atmosphere seems to thin. I have to breathe twice as fast to get enough oxygen.
Fifty thousand dollars. What will they expect me to do for that much money? What will I have to endure? I almost wish it had stopped lower.
I look at Candy, who has her hands curled up like a child, her head tucked under Ivan Tabakov’s chin. He looks hard and foreboding above her, like he’s carved out of stone—but I know from her contentedness that she’s completely safe in his arms. I’m longing for that security, standing on a pedestal, my pride ripped to shreds.