Page 6 of Wicked Auction

He’s balding, about my father’s age, and missing so many teeth that his mouth sparkles gold when the light hits it. He might’ve been stronger in his youth, but poor choices and too much drink have gone to his gut. Still, the man’s strong. He’s got one fuck of a backhand.

I’ve noticed every detail, down to the shamrock tat on his hand. I’ve practiced telling my brothers everything in vivid detail.

“And I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

I fold my arms across my chest, shivering, and stifle a cough. It’s cold as hell in here, and I’ve got nothing more than a threadbare blanket that does shit to keep me warm.

“You wouldn’t be so fucking cold if you’d eat,” he mutters, reaching for my tray. “People on the streets out here are begging for food, and you won’t even touch it?”

“Maybe you should eat it,” I snap. “Though honestly, it looks like you’re the one who could skip a few meals.”

“You little bitch.” He lifts his hand to slap me. I step back on instinct when a raspy voice behind him stops him mid-swing.

“No. Don’t hit her. We need her to look pretty for tomorrow.”

My momentary relief evaporates.

Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow? And why do I have to look pretty? That cannot be good.

“Consider yourself lucky this time,” Shamrock says, giving me an oily smirk. He reaches to stroke my cheek. I smack his hand away. His eyes narrow in rage for a fraction of a second. On instinct, I flinch when two large shadows loom behind him.

“Don’t. I told you not to hit her. If you mar her up for auction, they’ll have your fuckin’ head.”

Auction? Did he say… auction?

“What are you talking about?” My belly clenches, and I feel lightheaded. Auction?

“What do you mean, auction?”

Hostages get ransomed. Traded. Sent home in pieces if someone doesn’t pay. Hostages don’t end up with a price tag on an auction block.

What the fuck are they playing at?

I’m alone in a cell with three men twice my size. I can’t run. I can’t even fight. I can’t make out the other faces in the dim light. One has a length of rope wrapped around his hand, and the second has a roll of silver duct tape and a black hood. My pulse spikes.

Oh no.

“You’re too pretty to sit in a cell like this, see?” Shamrock says. His voice hardens as he jerks his chin toward the thinner, graying ginger to his left. “Tie her up.”

Ginger uncoils the rope as he reaches for me.

“You’re not taking me anywhere!” I slap his hand away. His accomplice grabs me around the waist, spins me around, and pushes me against the wall. My wrists are yanked above my head, and the black hood is tugged down.

I scream, but it’s swallowed whole by the fabric. My wrists are secured.

“Now, now,” Shamrock says. I’ll remember his voice until the day I die. “No use fighting. You’ll find it hard to breathe in there and could pass out. We want you unmarred when we transport you.”

I’m squirming, kicking, fighting for my life. My foot catches something soft, followed by a grunt and a curse.

I hear the familiar gravelly voice. “Feisty, isn’t she? Stick her.”

“No! Noooo!” I don’t want to be drugged again. I don’t know what they do to me when I’m drugged.

I fight with everything I’ve got, but my head’s pushed to the side, the hood yanked up, and Shamrock’s glaring at me, a syringe in his hand.

I hold his gaze.

“My brothers will find me. You’ll fucking regret this.”