Page 2 of Bound in Possession

He completely ignores me, turning on his heel and walking away. I want to chase after him—to rip the camera right out of his hands—but doing that will cause a massive scene, and my father is already turning his eyes to me with a sharp, silent warning.

I hold my father’s gaze, expecting him to threaten the man for taking my picture without permission, but he does nothing.

Before I can even process his indifference, two heavy-set guards suddenly flank me and grab my arms. For a split second, shock paralyzes me, and I let them drag me forward a few steps. But the numbness wears off fast. I dig my heels into the polished floor, fighting against their weight.

“Leave me alone!” I snap, thrashing against their iron grips. “Where are you taking me? Dad!”

The guards don’t answer, and neither does my father. They ruthlessly steer me toward a heavy-duty steel door at the far end of the room. Hot tears prick the backs of my eyes, blurring my vision. “What is happening?”

No one answers. I fight with every single ounce of my might, throwing my weight around, but my strength is nothing compared to theirs.

My father simply stands there, watching me get ripped away from him, his expression completely blank, without a single shred of care or paternal instinct in his eyes. The guards shove me through the heavy doorway and slam the door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place with a terrifyingly final thud.

The room is large, windowless, and sterile. I spin around, my heart hammering against my ribs, but the sight in front of me makes me freeze.

There are about a dozen young women in the room. Some are pacing like trapped animals. Some are sitting on the floor, burying their faces in their hands as they cry. Others just stare at the walls, their eyes completely empty, as if fear has already hollowed them out.

Looking around, I realize I am the best dressed person here. My gown is untouched, and my hair is still perfectly pinned. The other girls look entirely ruined—their expensive clothes are wrinkled, and their makeup is heavily smudged, probably from hours of crying.

There are empty seats scattered around the room, but I refuse to take them. Sitting down means accepting whatever this is.

Instead, I march straight back to the heavy door and grab the handle. I rattle it, but it doesn't budge. It is locked from the outside. Panic flares into pure rage, and I raise my fists, banging and banging against the thick metal.

"Open the door!" I scream, my knuckles throbbing. "Let me out!"

No one opens it. The hallway outside remains completely silent.

Exhausted, I finally stop and turn around. Every single woman in the room is staring at me. They don't look inspired by my defiance; they look at me like I am completely crazy in the head for even trying to fight.

"What is happening here?" I demand, my voice echoing off the cold walls as I look from face to face. "What is this place?"

No one answers me. A girl sitting nearby just shivers and pulls her knees tighter to her chest.

Suddenly, a loud electronic hum cuts through the silence. A speaker mounted high on the wall crackles to life. A man's voice comes through, deep, smooth, and perfectly professional, as if he is opening a high-society charity event.

"Welcome, gentlemen. The evening is about to begin. Please take your seats. The auction is officially open."

My mind spins, the words making absolutely no sense in the context of this locked room.

I turn to the nearest woman, stepping forward to grab her arm. My fingers tighten on her fabric as I try to force her to look at me. "What auction?" I ask, the confusion completely taking over my voice. "What is he talking about?”

The girl doesn't pull away. She just looks up at me, her eyes filled with a deep, crushing pity that makes my blood run cold.

"You really don't know?" she whispers, her voice trembling. "The auction is for us. We are the ones being sold."

CHAPTER TWO

MAKSIM

The air down here is heavy with expensive cologne, expensive tobacco, and the stench of desperate, pathetic men.

I enter the underground level of the hotel with disgust. I make sure nothing in my expression reveals what I am thinking. I keep my face completely blank, as always, but every step deeper into this place makes me want to turn around and leave. I have spent my entire life in the underworld. I have seen every form of illegal trade the syndicates can invent, but this particular kind of spectacle enrages me.

It is not because I am innocent. It is certainly not because I consider myself a moral man. I am the Pakhan of the Sokolov Bratva and my hands are covered in fucking blood. But to me, there is nothing more pathetic than powerful men congratulating themselves for buying frightened women. It's weak. It's a joke.

I am not here for a goddamn bride. I am here because Viktor Reznikov requested a meeting.

Viktor has been pressing me for months to open a new financing channel through my Eastern European arms pipelines. I do not trust the bastard. I dislike his faction, I dislike his absolute lack of discipline, and I dislike the reckless, stupid way he handles business.