Page 3 of Auctioned to the Reaper

I consider faking a seizure.

Then a voice rises from the back of the ballroom.

“Ten.”

One word.

Deep. Rough. Completely uninterested in whether anyone approves.

Every head turns.

Mine included.

A man stands beneath the shadow of the grand staircase, one hand tucked into the pocket of his black trousers, the other holding a numbered paddle.

He’s enormous.

Not simply tall, although he has to be well over six feet. He’s broad through the shoulders, with the kind of solid, intimidating build that makes the expensive black suit look like it’s struggling to contain him.

His shirt is open at the throat. No tie. No ridiculous costume.

Just a black skull mask covering most of his face.

And motorcycle boots.

At a masquerade ball.

Interesting choice.

“Ten thousand dollars!” Jerry announces, delighted. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere!”

The stranger doesn’t react.

He’s looking at me.

Not at my legs. Not at the neckline of my dress.

At my face.

A strange sensation crawls up my spine.

Something about him feels familiar.

The way he stands, weight shifted slightly onto one leg. The broad shoulders. The dark tattoos disappearing beneath his cuffs.

I know those tattoos.

Or I knew someone who had ones like them.

My stomach tightens.

No.

That’s impossible.

“Fifteen thousand!” Richard calls, apparently unwilling to lose to a man dressed like the Grim Reaper.

The stranger raises his paddle again.