Page 7 of Auctioned to the Prisoners

A siren startles me and spurs me to struggle from the vehicle, and I clasp my arms across my chest as I glance around. Loud male voices echo in the sprawling space, and the car door slams like a gunshot.

“You have a phone?”

He stares at the bulge on the side of my hip. The only place I had to store it was beneath the hem of my dress, tucked into the elastic of my thong. “Yes.”

“You’ll have to give it to me.”

My lifeline, the only way I have to connect to the outside world and my sister, is getting taken away.

I reach beneath my dress and pull out the small, warm phone, handing it to him.

“Will you bring it to me to check the messages?”

He slides the phone into his pocket and nods.

“This way.”

The air inside the prison is heavy and oppressive. The entryway starkly contrasts the dusty landscape with gray walls and harsh fluorescent lighting that buzzes faintly above. A metal detector and several armed guards greet us just past the doorway. The smell of disinfectant clings to everything, mingling with the faint scent of sweat and something hard to place.

We pass through security with little fuss, but my nerves are buzzing so hard, I don’t take anything in. I’m searched, but I don’t have any possessions with me, so it doesn’t take any time at all. As Warden Grady leads me deeper into the facility, the sound of my shoes echoes hollowly off the concrete floors. The hallways are narrow and windowless, lined with heavy steel doors with small, reinforced windows. I pass several guards along the way, each one giving me a look that’s a mix of curiosity and indifference. Grady keeps a brisk pace, barely glancing back to check if I’m following.

The farther we walk, the more the prison closes in around me. The constant hum of the security systems fills my mind like the low hum of a beehive. Every few steps, the distant clanging of metal doors slamming shut and the muffled voices of inmates amplify the dread.

We pass a series of small rooms—holding cells, interrogation rooms, and offices. The occasional inmate shuffles by, escorted by guards, their faces hard and weary, and their eyes on me, sizing me up.

Eventually, Grady stops in front of a reinforced door. “Cellblock D,” he said, his voice flat. “This is where the men you’ll be dealing with are housed. Keep your wits about you. Don’t share your private information. Play your cards close to your chest.”

Instead of going inside, he bypasses the door, passes through another coded door, and down a flight of stairs. At thebottom, and down a long dark corridor, is a smaller unit, which seems deserted. “This used to be the medical facility until it was relocated to another wing. It’s secure, but the cameras have been disconnected. No one comes down here.”

I glance around, taking in the small individual rooms, the open door to a bathroom area, and another room that must have been used for the staff. It’s huge compared to my place, but the windows are too high on the walls to look out of and are heavily reinforced with bars. There’s nothing to make the place homely.

“Wait here,” he says. “I’m going to bring them down.”

When he reaches the door, he turns to me. “You don’t have a bag.”

Has he only just noticed? I was in such a rush to register for the auction that I left my small bag on Josh’s motorbike, and the warden whisked me off before I could go back for it. I shake my head.

“You won’t need many clothes,” he says, more to himself than to me. “But I’ll find you a toothbrush and a towel. There’s soap in the bathroom.”

When he punches the code back in to leave, and the door slides open with a loud clink, I rest against the cool wall and bite back tears.

I won’t need many clothes.

The reality of what I’ve signed up for grabs me like a murderer’s hands around my neck, and the men aren’t even here yet. How will I hold myself together when I finally face them?

With the warden gone, I rush around to get a proper sense of the place, ending in the bathroom, where I gaze at my face in the mirror, startled by my appearance. My eyes are so heavily ringed with dark shadow that they look almost black, shuttering my emotions. The red of my lips has worn from the center, making them appear swollen and bruised. My neck is flushed with a nervous rash that I try to cool with water before dabbingmyself dry with a paper towel. I’m breathing so hard that the sound echoes around me like the room itself is gasping.

I barely have time to steady my nerves before heavy footsteps approach. Warden Grady’s gruff voice bounces off the walls as he nears with the men. My pulse quickens, and my mouth goes dry. I try to stand straighter, arms clenched tightly around myself, bracing for the moment when I’ll finally meet the men who now control my fate for the next thirty days.

The code pad makes its shrill beeps, and then the door releases and is pushed roughly open. Warden Grady steps through first, his face unreadable, though there’s a grim determination in his eyes. He knows he’s gone too far now, and there’s no going back.

Behind him, the men file in one by one, instantly filling the space with their intense presence.

The first man to enter is huge, his shoulders broad and filling the doorway, casting a long shadow across the room. His light brown hair is cropped short, showing off the hard angles of his jawline and the deep-set blue eyes that flick over me with a sharp intensity. His movements have raw power and fluidity as he gives me a slow once-over, his expression guarded. His tattooed biceps strain against the fabric of his prison uniform as he drops a small duffel bag to the ground with a thud.

Behind him, another man follows, and the energy in the room shifts. Where the first is all cold control, this man is jittery. His dark, unruly hair falls into his eyes, but it’s those eyes that hold me captive. There’s something wild in their dark green depths, a flicker of madness that dances beneath the surface, shifting from cold calculation to something far darker. His lips twitch into a half-smile, but it’s not reassuring. It’s the kind of smile that makes you wonder if you’re about to become a target or a meal. He tosses his bag next to the duffel with casual indifference, his eyes never leaving mine.

And then the final man makes his entrance, towering above even the first. His massive frame moves with surprising fluidity like he could have been a dancer in another life. His skin is a warmer brown, and his dark, curly hair is tied at the back in a knot. There’s an undeniable strength in how he carries himself, but his eyes tell a different story. They’re guarded but not hostile, more observant than anything else, like he’s constantly assessing the situation, looking for threats and weaknesses. He nods at me, his jaw tight behind a thick beard, keeping his bag on his shoulder and clutching a small paperback in his huge hand.

---