Page 2 of Sold at Auction

“Going once,” the auctioneer said, the flat tone of his voice suggesting that he didn’t expect another bid. “Going twice.”

I swallowed hard. I peered out into the audience, not having to feign my panicked wish to make out Delacroix’s face. Malleus had refused to let me see a picture, even.

“Sophia,” he had said in his gravelly voice, “we must do everything we can to make your reactions authentic.”

The auctioneer spoke again, the word that made my tummy flip. “Sold to Monsieur Anton Delacroix. I hope you enjoy breaking in this lovely young whore, monsieur.”

A round of appreciative applause rippled through the audience. Heat rose into my scalp at the thought of all of them imagining a rich man deflowering me, ripping through the virgin barrier of my pussy as I cried out under his hard, thrusting manhood.

I knew I should focus on the specifics of the mission, on the minute training Malleus had drilled into me. But it seemed impossible not to feel the gravity of my situation, not to fear that the duality of my existence might be laid bare for all to witness. As the spotlight shifted away and the auctioneer moved on to the next girl, I exhaled slowly, trying to regain some semblance of control over my roiling emotions.

The room grew quieter, the hum of anticipation settling as the next lot was introduced. I remained in my cage, waiting for the inevitable, my mind a storm of conflicted thoughts, my body still trembling from the intensity of the experience.

Five minutes after the last girl was sold—for a mere six million euros, I noted—the cage door swung open with a grating creak, startling me. I had fixed my attention on the left wing, from which other successful bidders had emerged to claim their new human property. The man who had opened the cage door, though, must have come from the right.

I instinctively drew back, my heart pounding in my chest, sure it must be Delacroix. It wasn’t, though: I had never seen Delacroix, but I recognized the man who greeted my gaze. The towering figure who loomed before me was miles Marcus Blackthorne. The unexpectedness of his presence sent a jolt through me, mingling surprise with a thrill of something else, perhaps the interest I had felt about Marcus. Malleus had told me to look out for him, the Guard field agent who had been in deep cover in Delacroix’s chateau for more than a year.

“Come,” he commanded in English, his voice a low rumble that resonated through my very bones.

Struggling to maintain composure, I stepped forward hesitantly, feeling the weight of his piercing blue eyes upon me. His image had been etched into my memory, a constant reminder of the web of intrigue that surrounded us.

“Remember, Sophia,” Malleus had cautioned, his tone both stern and protective, “Marcus is our man inside. Trust him, but never forget your mission. And remember that you will both be under constant surveillance. You cannot tell him who you really are.”

“Step outside,” Marcus instructed, breaking through my reverie. His words carried an undeniable authority, yet there was a subtle softness in his tone that belied the harshness of our surroundings.

I obeyed, feeling the cool air flow over my bare skin as I exited the cage. My senses seemed heightened, every sound and scent registering with vivid intensity. The auctioneer’s lewd commentary still echoed faintly in the background of my mind, a grotesque reminder of the world I now inhabited.

“Monsieur Delacroix will be expecting you at his chateau,” Marcus continued, his gaze unwavering. “As his head of security, it’s my duty to oversee the preparation of all new acquisitions.”

“Preparation?” I repeated, struggling to keep my voice steady. The implications of his words sent a shiver down my spine.

“Discipline and readiness for your master’s bed,” Marcus elaborated, his eyes darkening with intent. “Your obedience will be tested; your submission, refined. It falls upon me to ensure you are adequately prepared for your owner’s desires.”

Despite my training, despite the ironclad control I had honed under Malleus’ tutelage, I felt a surge of conflicting emotions—fear, anticipation, and an undeniable attraction to the man standing before me. His presence was magnetic, drawing me in even as I fought to maintain my equilibrium.

“Understand this, Sophia,” Marcus said, stepping closer until his breath mingled with mine. “You must submit entirely to Delacroix’s will. In every way imaginable. Your… success depends on it.”

My eyes went wide, just as a true innocent’s would have. I felt certain Marcus had almost said life rather than success.

“Oui, Monsieur,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The proximity of his body, the intensity of his gaze, stirred something deep within me—a tumultuous blend of desire and dread.

“Good girl,” he murmured, a flicker of approval in his eyes. I watched with unfeigned trepidation, eyes wide, as he reached into the inside breast pocket of his black suit coat. He pulled his hand out, and I heard a soft clinking just before I saw that he held a black leather collar and a matching leash. The metal fixtures glinted slightly in the low remaining light on the stage—gilt, at least, or perhaps even solid gold.

As he reached the collar towards me, I shied away—this time intentionally, as an attempt to hide my strong reaction to Marcus’ physical presence with play-acted innocence.

“A bit skittish, are we?” Marcus asked, his voice ironic but also stern. “Come here, you naughty little slut. If you have trouble with your collar, you’re going to need a good deal of preparation for the night Monsieur fucks your ass for the first time.”

That shocked me, for real. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I felt the color mount to the roots of my hair. With my knees wobbling under me, I took a step forward, into range of Marcus’ long, muscular arms.

“Turn around,” Marcus commanded, and I did, with a deep shudder. “Chin up.”

He had the collar in his left hand. I saw it at the bottom of my vision just before he settled it into place at the front of my neck. Then his right hand brushed against my cheek, a fleeting touch that left my skin tingling with electricity. I couldn’t tell whether he had done it on purpose, and the uncertainty brought another surge of heat to my face. An instant later, I felt him fasten the clasp on my neck, and then I heard the click of the golden lock. The trembling in my limbs, to know how completely I belonged to Anton Delacroix, came from the true depths of my mind and heart.

“Turn around,” Marcus said again.

Feeling like I had left my body, I complied.

He had the leash, now, and he clipped it to the ring at the front of the collar.

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