Page 49 of Sold at Auction

By the time Marcus and I reached the New York mithraeum, I could barely recall the whirlwind of different modes of transportation by which we made our escape from Legeria. At some point over the Atlantic, on a private jet, I became fully aware of my surroundings for the first time since Marcus and I had entered the guard room of Delacroix’s chateau. I realized Marcus was in the seat next to mine and that someone had dressed me in comfy gray sweats. I promptly fell asleep with my head on my miles’ arm.

I awoke in a little room that I instantly identified as my cell in the mithraeum. The sweats had been taken off me, and I wore only a leather collar.

I had an authentic Was it all a dream? moment as my eyes fell on the copy of the Iliad Malleus had given me, what seemed a lifetime ago. As I sat up, though, the soreness all over told me that the memories that flooded back into my head represented my lived reality.

I had done it. Well, I had downloaded the drive and I had made it out, anyway. My cheeks warmed when I thought of what it had cost Marcus, though. I tried to push away the unworthy thought that by blowing his cover, I had forced him to come back to New York—and since he had returned to the mithraeum, he would of course get to take care of me.

Maybe I didn’t try that hard to push the thought away, but I felt bad about it. Or maybe I tried to feel bad about it.

The door opened, and a familiar figure entered.

“Malleus!” I said, jumping up from the little bed and wincing at the discomfort the movement caused. To my surprise and delight, the big miles took me into his arms and hugged me.

“Columba,” he said. “I’m very happy to see you.”

“Ow!” I said, though I had tried to endure it silently. I looked up into his dark eyes as he smiled down at me. “I won’t ask any questions, sir,” I told him, letting a little smile play on my lips. “But I’m sure you can imagine there are a lot of things I want to know.” I felt my mouth twist to the side for a moment as Malleus gazed patiently down at me. “Especially… you know…”

Malleus’ smile broadened. “About miles Marcus.”

I nodded, feeling my face redden a little.

“All is well,” my trainer told me. “And that’s all a columba needs to know about it.”

I frowned at him. “Am I still a columba? I thought…”

Malleus’ smile became the forbidding expression I remembered so well. I didn’t even let him say it: I said it myself.

“Don’t ask useless questions, columba. Fine.” I took a deep breath, remembering the one question that wasn’t useless. For the first time, I realized, I really meant it.

“How may I serve you, miles?” I asked.

“You will learn the answer soon,” Malleus replied, his smile returning. “Today, you rest.”

“Soon” meant that night, as I realized when, an hour after I had eaten dinner in my cell, two nuptae, dressed like me in nothing but their collars, arrived to take me to a sumptuous bathroom. I knew better than to speak to them, especially in light of the air of ritual solemnity they maintained, using their hands to position me as they wished rather than any words at all.

They bathed me, and dried me, and put my hair into a French braid. They showed me myself, in a floor length mirror, their pretty faces smiling in what seemed sympathetic happiness for me, on the occasion of whatever this all was. I blushed at the sight, as usual. I took it as a given: I had stopped wondering when I would stop feeling that thrill of shame, of violated innocence, when I saw my naked body, my little nipples, the smooth cleft between my thighs—and, always breathtaking, the collar around my neck.

“Bene,” I whispered, and it made the nuptae smile.

The nuptae led me through dimly lit corridors, our bare feet padding softly on the bare stone. Ahead I saw a small door, carved with intricate symbols that seemed to pulse with an ancient energy. My breath caught as one of the nuptae pushed the door open, revealing Marcus standing in the center of the room.

He wore a regal purple robe, belted loosely at the waist, his muscular chest bare beneath it. The fabric clung to his form, teasing the lines of his physique and hinting at the powerful body I knew so well, hidden beneath. A soft gasp escaped my lips as I realized my miles wore nothing under the robe. I thought of Delacroix, and of how much more welcome a sight Marcus seemed to me, clad that way. My cheeks flushed with warmth, love, and arousal intertwining in a heady mix that left me trembling.

“Columba Sophia,” Marcus greeted me, his rich baritone reverberating through the chamber and settling deep within me. His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, an unspoken command pulling me forward.

I moved towards him, each step feeling like a surrender to an irresistible force. My body hummed with anticipation and a little fear as I approached, my eyes never leaving his face. Marcus’ gaze softened momentarily as he took in my delicate frame, but there was no mistaking the possessiveness that simmered beneath his calm exterior.

As I drew nearer to my miles, the ritual chamber unfolded around me, revealing its hidden splendor and dark purpose. The walls, lined with stone and adorned with frescoes of ancient Roman rituals, seemed to breathe with the weight of history. Each scene depicted acts of submission and dominance, warriors and their consorts engaged in an eternal dance of power. My eyes flitted over the intricate details—fine strokes capturing the agony and ecstasy of those who had come before me.

Candles ensconced in wrought iron holders cast a flickering light that frolicked across the frescoes, casting long shadows that made the figures appear to move and come alive in a whispered dance of fire and stone. The air breathed the scent of sandalwood and myrrh, mingling with something more primal—the unmistakable musk of arousal.

The stone floor beneath my feet had a soft covering of rich Persian rugs that felt luxurious against my bare skin. I saw two wooden posts set into the floor two meters or so from the bed, which lay in an arched niche, its rock surfaces furnished with a mattress and splendid red and gold covers. Marcus’ presence loomed large at the center of it all, a beacon in this temple of power and submission.

“Come stand before me,” Marcus intoned, his voice a velvet command that sent shivers down my spine. As he sat on the bed, I saw, my eyes widening, that my columba’s leathers lay next to him, waiting.

I positioned myself directly before him, my knees threatening to buckle under his intense scrutiny. As I trembled with anticipation, he began to explain what was about to happen. His deep voice washed over me, both soothing and igniting my nerves.

“Columba,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine, “tonight I will consecrate you as my nupta. Do you understand what that means?”

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