Page 8 of The Demon's Tongue

"Seventy thousand!" the first dark elf yells, his desperation palpable.

Pathetic fools,I think to myself.Every last one of them.

The bidding continues, escalating to absurd heights. I watch, seething, as they throw around sums of coin like it means nothing. All of this for a human. It's somewhat amazing as much as it is disgusting.

"Maybe I'll teach her some real obedience," the third dark elf sneers. "Break that fire in her eyes. Bend her over, teach her what it means to be submissive. How about that?"

My blood boils at his words, but I stay composed. Losing control now won't help her. And it won't help me, either. It would just show vulnerability. Weakness. Things I abhor.

"Come here, you!" another dark elf yells, beckoning Geneva over.

With a nod from Miss Pickett, Geneva takes a few hesitant steps forward. She gnaws on her bottom lip, a nervous habit that only makes the dark elves around her holler and cheer louder.

"There you go," he drawls, running his fingers along her exposed skin. "You'll do splendidly. You've got some soft skin. You're not used to hard work, are ya?"

"Oh, don't be so convinced!" Miss Pickett interjects. "She knows how to work hard. She lives to please. And she doesn't rest until her master is completely satisfied!"

"Eighty thousand for the girl!" another dark elf yells, clearly impressed by what he's heard.

"Eighty-five thousand!" another dark elf shouts, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.

The room falls silent, the other dark elves exchanging looks of frustration and disappointment. The bidder stands at the back, his presence commanding, a dark elf of the highest caste. The envy in the room is almost palpable.

Miss Pickett claps her hands together, her smile widening. "Sold to the dark elf over there! What is your name, good sir?"

"Sylas."

Long white hair with one slim braid cascading down the strands, dark skin, wearing jewels on his fingers that catch the dim lights of the bidding room. Based on the looks of the other dark elves, he seems to command a silent respect from everyone else.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. The other bidders mutter under their breath, clearly disgruntled at having lost to him. But how can they blame him for their own poverty? The dark elves and their immense egos never fail to amuse me.

"Always gets what he wants, doesn’t he?" one dark elf grumbles.

"Of course," another replies. "No one can outbid Sylas. He's already bought another damn human. Why can't he share?"

Geneva's shoulders slump, but only slightly. She’s holding on, but there's an exhaustion in her features. Fear has a hold on her, and even though I can feel her desire to use the crystals, she's frozen in place.

That's not a promising sight for my dear human.

Sylas steps forward, the crowd parting out of his way so he can reach the platform where Geneva stands. His eyes rake over her with a possessive gleam. "You’ll do nicely," he says, a smug grin playing on his lips. "I’ve got big plans for you."

He glances at Miss Pickett, gesturing with his hand before turning away.

"Make sure she’s delivered to my manor by sundown," Sylas instructs Miss Pickett, who nods eagerly.

"Of course, Lord Sylas," she simpers. "It’s been a pleasure doing business with you."

Sylas' gaze shifts back to Geneva. "You’re mine now, girl. Better get used to it."

Geneva’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say a word. Her silence is her defiance, her way of holding onto whatever shred of dignity she has left. I respect that.

Miss Pickett leads her way, shooing her off the platform and behind some thick curtains. My dear human will learn, one way or another, how to protect herself.

She'll need it, if she wants to survive in the clutches of these dark elves.

As much as I want to help her, I can't. I'll hold back, watch her suffer and relish in her pleas for my assistance. She has hope in me. Trust.

But a human should know better than to trust a demon.

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