“Fifty,” Damon says sadly. “That’s all for this ripe peach?”
He grasps the fabric at my hips and pulls, leaving my legs bare. I’m only wearing the plain white panties in a roomful of people. I can’t help it—I cover myself, my hands cupping between my legs. This seems to delight Damon, who laughs. The rest of the room stomps their approval, raising their glasses and toasting one another.
Beautiful find, one of them says, like I’m an archeological dig.
Perfect rack. Look at those hips. I’m too busy looking at her mouth. I’d keep those lips busy, that’s for fucking sure. More laughter.
My gaze snaps to Gabriel Miller. He leans against the back of the wall, arms crossed. He isn’t even holding a placard, but that doesn’t surprise me. He’s here to see me humiliated, not because he wants me. No, the surprising part is the faint whisper of disappointment. I should know better than that, because if anyone would take my father’s debt out of my skin, it would be him.
“Imagine tasting her,” Damon says. “Imagine pressing her sweet flesh between your fingertips.”
There are a few men in the audience who haven’t raised their placards yet.
Maybe they don’t like what they see—my body or my family name. Or maybe they only paid the entrance fee to watch the spectacle. But now they lean forward and begin bidding. I realize that they were waiting for the preliminary bids to get out of the way.
These are the serious bidders.
They mean to win.
“Do I have seventy-five, seventy-five, seventy-five?”
Uncle Landon raises his placard, his eyes coldly trained on me.
A gasp escapes me. “No,” I whisper. Not when I turned down his marriage proposal and the security that would have come with it. Not when he reminds me of my father.
Not when he really wants my mother.
Part of me hopes that he’s bidding to save me. Maybe he’ll send me home without making me fulfill my end of the bargain. But his gaze rakes my body, leaving no doubt about his plans. And part of me burns in anger because my father considered him a friend—and when my father most needed help, Uncle Landon turned his back.
Oh, he helped me spend the last of the money. He explained the limitations of my trust. But if he could spend seventy-five thousand dollars on my virginity, he could have saved our house himself.
The man with the beautiful blonde on his arm outbids him. If I were to guess, I’d say he purchased her as well. Probably the terms were more subtle than an auction. Gifts. An allowance. The principle is the same. Why does he need another woman? How many does he own?
Uncle Landon outbids him, leaning forward in his seat.
Eighty thousand. Ninety.
One hundred twenty.
One hundred twenty-five.
My stomach clenches and unclenches in rapid succession, and I’m afraid I’m going to hurl even without having eaten. Maybe I’ll just make horrible, unsexy sounds as I heave, causing everyone to give up on the auction and go home.
Damon drives the bidding higher. The gray-haired man and Uncle Landon continue to fight each other, pushing the number up, locked in a stalemate like bucks fighting with their horns.
One hundred eighty-five. One hundred ninety.
Two hundred thousand dollars. Uncle Landon’s placard stares back at me, unmoved by my horror. I want to pretend that I misunderstood the bidding, but Landon’s expression of gruesome triumph proves he won. I’m going home with him to spread my legs, to pretend to be my mother.
Everyone in the room turns to look at the gray-haired man. Even the beautiful woman on his arm seems tense with anticipation, waiting to see if he’ll continue to bid.
“Do I have two hundred thousand and ten?” Damon says almost casually.
The gray-haired man studies my body with a clinical expression. He narrows on the space between my legs, the patch of white fabric. “Let’s see her.”
Immediately the crowd erupts into expressions of agreement, demands to remove my panties.
Damon seems to consider this request. “You have to pay to play, my friend.”
The gray-haired man gives a European shrug. “It won’t break her virginity just to look.”
A long pause where my legs press together, knees weak. Oh God, I can’t do this. Can’t pretend to be my mother, can’t bare everything for strangers. I can’t wake up, and the nightmare’s only just begun.
Damon turns to me in the silence. The entire room seems to hold its breath.
I meet Damon’s eyes and see a glimmer of sympathy. No no no. He’ll make me undress for them. And what next? Would they get to inspect me?
To feel between my legs and verify that my hymen is still intact?
Tears burn my eyes, and I know I won’t be able to hold them back. I pray for strength and find none. That feels like losing more than anything else—more than being naked, more than being sold.