Page 240 of Bad for Me

“I didn’t expect that either,” I admit, my eyes lingering on Misha. He looks up at me, too, steadily meeting my eyes with a defiance I so rarely see from someone on this stage.

And fuck, I want to break him.

I don’t look away from Misha until they guide him away. Only then do I return my gaze to Angelo, though I still feel a little blindsided from what I’d just done. “Yeah,” I say, giving a shake of my head as I try to clear it. “I’ll need some help getting him home and settled.”

Home.

Fuck.

“My father is going to be so thrilled that this is how I chose to come out to the world.” I can’t help but laugh. “Jesus fuck, Angelo. Why didn’t you stop me?”

Angelo claps my shoulder with an amused snort. “Because it’s none of my business who you want to buy as a sex slave?” He grins at me. “It’ll be good for you! You’ve been so dour lately. And if you don’t like him, well, fuck him a few times and then call me to help you dump the body.”

I grimace at the thought of wasting a fine specimen likeMisha. “Eh. I’d just pass him on,” I say vaguely. But I won’t, and I know it. I don’t know how there was such an instant connection between the two of us, but I’d felt it. I don’t care if he did or not. He’s mine.

I should feel guilty for being a part of this system, for being someone who takes advantage of everything we have to offer, but I’ve seen it all before —blah blah blah— when I think of how I just bought someone of my own.

Maybe that makes me an even worse person than I’d thought, but I’m not completely cruel. He might even be better off with me than with someone else.

Right.

And pigs will grow wings and fly.

“Anyway, let’s grab him and get out of here and back home. Somebody else can deal with wrap-up here,” I say.

Angelo nods, and the two of us head to the back room. I greet the broker and handle payment, tamping down my impatience to finally meet Misha properly.

He’s in a room with the other people who have been bought. I notice him sitting close to a woman, whispering to her in low words. If I had to guess, I’d say he was trying to comfort her, for all the good it’ll do her once she’s in the hands of her buyer. It only speaks to his inexperience in this world.

A rookie, the auctioneer had said, who’d tried to steal from the wrong person. Not an idealist, then, but something more.

Something intriguing.

Before I go to him, though, I stop in my tracks and face Angelo, clearing my throat before I ask in a low voice, “Is it too cheesy to tell him to call me ‘Master’?”

Angelo rubs his chin. “Does it get you off? Then no.” He laughs. “You should come up with a nickname he’d hate though.”

“I’ll figure something out,” I say with a snort before finally gathering the rest of my nerve and crossing over to Misha. I look pointedly between him and the crying young woman, and she shrinks back from my gaze. “I hate to interrupt,” I say dryly, “but I have plans, and your sympathy’s only going to get you into trouble.”

Misha gives me another defiant look. “More trouble than I’m already in?” He squeezes the woman’s shoulder and says to her, “Hold strong. You can survive this.”

“You should be more worried about your own survival,” I tell him pointedly. “Especially before I get impatient. Come. Behave on the way home.” I’m slightly bigger than Misha, but taking him down would cause a scene.

Thankfully, I have Angelo in case things go sour, even though I don’t really want to owe him any real favors.

Friend or not, we’re still both made men.

Misha snarls at me. “That makes you feel good about yourself, huh? Hurting people weaker than you? But go ahead. Hurt me. I’m not as easy to handle as all the beaten downchildrenyou sell here.”

Angelo lets out a long whistle. “Damn. Are you gonna let him talk to you like that, Raul?”

In public? Absolutely not. The last thing I need is to be embarrassed in front of my colleagues. Things like this are personal to me, though — private — for all that a small audience is forming to see just how I’ll handle the too-old offering on the block this evening.

Fuck.

I flag down one of my family’s foot soldiers. “Go find me a whip. Cat o'nine, preferably.”

He salutes me with a “yes, sir,” before disappearing into the crowd.

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