Page 4 of Auctioned to the Reaper

“Fifty.”

The ballroom erupts.

Someone actually drops a champagne glass.

I stare at the man beneath the staircase.

Fifty thousand dollars.

For dinner.

With me.

Unless he thinks I’m serving a twenty-course tasting menu, somebody has made a spectacular mistake.

Jerry laughs nervously into the microphone. “Fifty thousand dollars! Sir, that’s an extraordinarily generous offer.”

The stranger tilts his head.

“Seventy-five.”

Silence crashes over the ballroom.

Even Uncle Hank stops drinking.

Jerry blinks. “I’m sorry. Did you say seventy-five thousand?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

A few startled laughs break out.

Heat rushes into my cheeks.

That voice.

God, that voice.

It’s deeper than I remember. Rougher. Like someone dragged it across gravel and soaked it in whiskey.

But there’s something beneath the harshness that makes my pulse stumble.

Something I haven’t heard in ten years.

“Seventy-five thousand dollars!” Jerry announces, practically vibrating. “Going once! Going twice!”

I grip the microphone stand.

“Wait. Can we establish whether he’s a serial killer first?”

The stranger’s shoulders move.

Barely.

But I swear he’s laughing.

“SOLD!” Jerry shouts, slamming his gavel. “To the gentleman in the skull mask for seventy-five thousand dollars!”

Applause explodes.