Page 7 of Sold to the wrong Alpha
Applause scattered through the crowd—polite, brief, civilized.
Ren watched as the two bodyguards who had been holding the omega down dragged him without ceremony. The boy didn’t resist. He was so stunned that there was nothing left in him that could resist.
He disappeared through the archway on the other side of the room.
And then Kovac turned toward where Ren was standing.
Their eyes met across the chamber filled with smoke and predators.
Kovac smiled.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “allow me to introduce our next piece.”
The same bodyguards who had accompanied the omega dressed in red latex helped Ren up onto the exhibition platform. Thespotlights focused on his head hit him full force. He blinked, dazzled, trying to let his pupils adjust to the abrupt change in lighting. The black latex jumpsuit clung to his skin, a synthetic reminder of his own vulnerability.
He clenched his right fist, feeling the faint rustle of the paper Rocco had given him, now a crumpled mass of sweat and fragile hope.
The air caught in his throat. He tensed. Breathe. In. Out. Ren forced himself to stare at a fixed point on the dark wooden floor—an imperfection in the varnish, something to anchor him to the present.
“And now, gentlemen,” Malachi Kovac’s voice boomed, unctuous and full of cordiality. “A… special piece.”
Ren felt the weight of those men’s pheromones envelop him, even though he couldn’t see them. The spotlights shining on him made his position resemble that of someone on a stage. Complete exposure. No visibility.
“This omega is no novice in the art of giving pleasure. Though circumstances have changed, he grew up in luxury. A stifled laugh rippled through the room. The mention of his family, of his father’s downfall, was a deliberate stab. “He possesses an innate ability to please. I assure you, he knows how to bring a man to orgasm in seconds.”
Whispers. Tense interest in the air.
“He has a divine mouth,” Kovac continued, savoring every word. “But I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you. The contract is for a full year. During that time, the lucky winning bidder may do with him whatever he pleases. Anything except mutilating him and, obviously, killing him. Business is business.”
Ren took a breath. Nausea rose in his throat, thick and bitter. He focused on his breathing, on the crumpled paper in his hand. Rocco’s promise. When the lights go out… run. It was his only mantra, the only prayer he had left.
“The starting bid is one hundred thousand,” Kovac announced.
An expectant silence filled the room. Ren’s heart was pounding against his ribs.
“One hundred thousand.”
The voice.
Ren froze. He didn’t have to look up. He knew that voice, an echo of past nightmares, of awkward dinners where that same inflection masqueraded as kindness. A chill ran down his spine. It was a voice that smelled of expensive cologne and buried cruelty.
Dimitri Reznov.
“We have one hundred thousand,” Kovac confirmed, with a half-smile that suggested the night was just beginning. “Any higher bids?”
“Two hundred thousand,” someone shouted from the side.
“Two hundred twenty thousand,” replied another voice with an eastern accent.
The figures climbed, overlapping one another in a cacophony of possession. Ren’s head was spinning. He was a piece of meat hanging from a hook, a possession they were competing for. Each new bid was another nail in his coffin. He clung to the mental image of the paper in his hand. Run. The word flickered behind his open eyes.
“Five hundred thousand,” Reznov’s voice rang out again, cutting through the noise. It had a tone of finality, as if he were ending a child’s game.
But someone else disagreed.
“Five hundred fifty.”
“Six hundred.” Reznov’s voice, now with an edge of impatience.
