Page 63 of Fangs
Cain counters. “Seventy.”
“Eighty.”
“One hundred.”
The twins reach for my panties.
My thighs press together. My bound hands cannot reach the waistband. I cannot stop them.
The room laughs. Cold. Cruel.
“No.” My voice cracks. “Please. Anyone but him.”
The pig-man’s grin widens. He raises his paddle. “One hundred fifty thousand.”
Cain’s jaw tightens. “Two hundred.”
“Two fifty.”
Cain hesitates.
The pig-man leans forward. “Your little protector cannot save you now, girl. I will break you. Train you. Make you beg for scraps. You will crawl through my halls on all fours.”
The twins yank. The fabric tears. I am exposed. Bare. Vulnerable. My last scrap of dignity stripped away.
The room devours me with their eyes.
The auctioneer’s voice cuts through. “Going once to Lord Silas for two hundred fifty thousand.”
I close my eyes.
“Going twice.”
My throat closes. I cannot breathe. Cannot speak.
The pig-man laughs.
And I break.
“Blake!”
The name tears from my throat, raw and desperate. It echoes through the hall, slicing through the murmur of the crowd.
“Blake, please. I need you. Please, I need you now.”
The room goes silent. The twins pause. The crowd stills. The auctioneer’s mouth hangs open.
The pig-man’s grin falters.
“Going—” The auctioneer tries to continue.
“One million.”
The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. Thunderous. Cold. Absolute.
Every head turns toward the corner.
A figure cloaked in darkness, hidden in the shadows.
