Page 3 of Sold at Auction

“Follow me,” he commanded, turning abruptly, as if I could do anything else. I trailed behind him, my eyes downcast, fixed on the leash to make certain the slack in it remained, so that the collar wouldn’t jerk painfully at my neck. I was terribly conscious of my nakedness as we began to pass through the crowd of gorgeously clad men, whose gazes I felt certain all lingered obscenely on my exposed body.

All the while, my mind raced. Malleus clearly hadn’t known how high his miles had risen in Delacroix’s ranks. I had my own mission, different from Marcus’, more urgent though not more important. How could I possibly navigate this situation, without giving a trained Guard agent any suspicion that I wasn’t the innocent, virginal fucking piece Delacroix thought he had just purchased for his bed?

CHAPTER 1

Six weeks earlier

Sophia

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the flickering screen of my outdated laptop. A mixture of excitement and desperation surged through me at what I had just noticed to the side of my social media feed. It was just a few weeks before my nineteenth birthday, and the bleak reality of my future loomed large. With no money for college and the prospect of selling my soul to a megacorp like Selecta hanging over my head, I felt trapped. That’s when I saw it—the ad that seemed almost too good to be true, so good that it practically shimmered on my screen.

Join the Ostia Modeling Agency, it beckoned, and experience a life of high-powered glamour, travel, and luxury.

My friends had always told me I should be a model, but I had dismissed the idea as superficial and beneath me. Yet the lure of high-class travel and an escape from my mundane existence proved irresistible. I clicked on the ad and filled out the application with trembling fingers. To my astonishment, I received a response almost immediately, instructing me to come to New York for an interview.

I spent the next few days preparing meticulously, selecting my best clothes for the occasion—a pink silk blouse that clung to my curves in all the right places, and a black maxi skirt that flowed elegantly with each step. Matching pumps completed the ensemble, their modest heels giving me a slight boost in confidence. As I stood before the mirror, admiring my reflection, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of anticipation. This could be my ticket out.

The journey to New York seemed a blur of anxious excitement. When I arrived at the address provided, I found myself standing before an imposing skyscraper, its sleek lines and mirrored surface reflecting the bustling city around it.

On the 48th floor, the elevator doors slid open to reveal a lobby that looked like a purposefully awe-inspiring display of modern opulence—polished marble floors, leather-covered couches, and a sea of impeccably dressed women moving about with purpose.

“Welcome to Ostia,” a receptionist greeted me with a warm smile when I emerged from the elevator, my eyes wide as I looked around the stunning space. She too was stunning, her attire a masterpiece of haute couture. Behind her head, in an elegant black script on the white wall, the words Ostia Modeling confirmed that I’d gotten off on the correct floor. “Sophia Larkwood?”

I blinked at her, taken aback that she had recognized me. I’d sent a selfie with my application, true, but how had it made its way to the receptionist’s desk?

“Yes,” I said, not liking the hesitation in my voice. “Yes, I’m Sophia.”

She rose from the long desk. “I’m Gail,” she said. “Please follow me.”

Two other equally beautiful women, in equally gorgeous dresses, sat further down, so the lobby wouldn’t lack for supervision. I felt as if I had entered a different world, with its own rules that applied only to people like Gail and her colleagues.

I trailed behind her, my heart pounding as we navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the agency. Every woman I passed seemed more beautiful than the last, their outfits rivaling those seen on the runways of Milan and Paris—as known to me through hours of time wasted on fashion news online. The air held the subtle scent of expensive perfume and carried a faint hum of whispered conversations and the tap of clicking heels.

“Right this way,” Gail the receptionist said, opening a door to a small, windowless room. “Your interviewer will be with you shortly. I’ll take your purse. It’ll be at the receptionists’ desk when you’re done.”

“Oh, but…” I said. “I can keep my phone, right?”

Gail shook her head. “I’m afraid not. You may be given some proprietary information, and we need to be careful.”

I frowned and considered for a moment, then handed over my little clutch. Gail bestowed a reassuring smile on me.

I stepped inside the little room, the door closing softly behind me. The room was stark in its simplicity—a single table and two chairs, illuminated by the harsh glare of a fluorescent light. I took a seat, smoothing my skirt nervously as I waited.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, my mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead. I tried to go through the answers I had prepared in my head: No, no experience, but I’m a quick learner. Well, frankly, I’m interested in security, but a little luxury wouldn’t hurt. No, I know it’s a hard job, but I like to think I’m artistic, and I can see myself moving up in the industry once I know the ropes. Yes, I’m willing to work hard.

Just as I began to lose hope that they even remembered I was here, the door swung open. To my surprise, a tall man entered. He had on a charcoal gray business suit, his red tie making for a striking contrast against the muted tones. His broad-shouldered presence seemed to command the room. To my confusion, my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him.

Relax. They probably kept you waiting this long just to mess with you, so they could get an idea of what you’re really like. Or something like that.

“My name is Malleus,” he announced, his voice deep and authoritative. He gave no sign of knowing how strange that sounded, as an introduction. “You will call me miles. It’s a title, not a name, and it means I will be your trainer. You are from this moment a columba of the Order of Ostia, under my supervision.”

I stared at him, my mind reeling. Trainer? Columba? What did any of this mean?

“Go ahead and take off your clothes,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

A wave of shock, fear, and something else—something darker—washed over me. My body tensed, my heart hammering in my chest as I grappled mentally with the command. The room seemed to close in around me, the air growing thick with an oppressive, sudden sense of the gravity of the moment. I had the frightening but irresistible thought that my life had just changed a good deal more than I had thought I wanted it to.

“Take off your clothes,” he repeated, his eyes boring into mine. “Or I’ll take them off for you.”

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