Page 62 of Fangs

Light floods my eyes, blinding and harsh. I blink through the burn, vision swimming, and the room resolves in merciless detail.

A stage. I’m on a stage.

Below me, a sea of faces tilts upward. Pale skin gleams in candlelight. Lips curl with hunger. Jewels glitter at their throats. They look like nobility. They look like predators. They look like death.

Twins girls flank me. Their blonde hair swept into perfect victory rolls. Crimson lips frozen in identical smiles. Their dresses are cut high on the thighs, low on the chest. Dolls. Assistants in this theater of horror.

One of them reaches for my dress.

The auctioneer steps forward. A tall man in black, his voice resonant, practiced. He surveys the crowd with cold authority.

“Our first offering of the evening.” His voice rolls through the hall. “The bidding begins at one thousand.”

The dress falls away.

I stand in crimson lingerie. The corset cinches my waist to impossible narrowness. Stockings gleam in the candlelight. Garters glitter. Heels force my body into an arch that emphasizes every curve. I’m a display. A product. A thing.

“Two thousand.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

The twins move in perfect synchronization. One removes my stockings. The other unfastens my garters. Each piece falls away, and the bids climb higher.

“Ten thousand.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

The corset falls.

I stand in my bra and panties, skin prickling with cold and shame. The room buzzes with excitement. The bids reach impossible heights.

Two bidders remain.

Cain. His face carved from stone, eyes fixed on me with cold determination.

And another man. He is repulsive—pig features, small eyes gleaming with greed. Sweat slicks his brow. He has brought girls of his own. They kneel at his feet, leather harnesses strapped over their mouths. Horses. He treats them like horses.

My stomach turns.

“Forty thousand.”

“Forty-five.”

“Fifty.”

The twins reach for my bra.

Fingers brush the clasp. The room holds its breath. The fabric loosens, slips.

My bra falls.

I stand bare from the waist up, my wrists bound behind me, unable to cover myself. The room erupts with hungry murmurs. The pig-man’s eyes gleam. He raises his paddle.

“Sixty thousand.”