Page 31 of Wicked Pursuit

I expect them to leave. They don’t. They sit on the short chair across from me, cross their long legs, and... wait.

My skin heats as I page through the contract. Despite my fear of not understanding, it’s relatively straightforward. The House takes 20 percent of the winning bid on me. I get the rest.

By signing this—by participating in the auction as an item—I am giving consent to whatever the winner wants to do with me. The exceptions are anything that could maim or kill me... which leaves a lot to be desired.

I look at the Concierge. “No safe words?”

“The contract is your safe word.” They smile thinly. “And each room is outfitted with a panic button should such a thing be necessary.”

That’s . . . not how safe words work.

I keep reading. The contract removes House’s responsibility for any harm that befalls me. My only recourse lies in the fact that the three days I’m apparently offering at auction will happen on the premises, which means there will be someone who isn’t Wolf there if things go wrong. In that time, I can cancel the contract and repay the amount I received... for a truly ostentatious fee—an added 30 percent.

If Wolf is the one who wins... He has never hurt me. Scared me, yes, but he’s had plenty of opportunity to do actual harm, and he never crossed that line.

But who knows if Wolf even has money like we’re talking about here? He seems like he’s thought of everything, but what if there’s someone with deeper pockets than him? The security in this place is intense. He can’t kill his way through the crime scions of the East Coast to get to me.

The thought makes me tingle a little. I really am a foolish monster.

I sign before I can talk myself out of it. The Concierge gathers up the contract. “There’s a showing this afternoon before the auction itself. You will be expected to be silent and still for the duration.”

“Okay.” I swallow hard.

The Concierge leaves without another word. The lock clicks a few seconds later. I want to ask why they’re locking me in when I’ve consented to be here and signed the contract, but there’s no one to ask.

My seclusion doesn’t last long. A pair of people arrive and guide me into a different part of the building, where I’m subjected to a number of beauty treatments. A body scrub, a blowout, professional makeup. I thought I took good care of myself, have been called high-maintenance in the past, but this is on another level.

Through it all, they don’t say a word. After the third attempt at getting my questions answered, I give up and just enjoy the fun parts.

Unfortunately that’s when the grim thoughts start circling. Wolf made it sound like tonight he’d claim me publicly, but he might have been lying to keep me complacent. If one of Carver City’s enemies wins me in the auction... if they demand...

I shudder. I’m having regrets. Lots of regrets. Especially when I’m handed what I’m expected to wear for the viewing. “No. Absolutely not.”

The person—they never gave me their name—doesn’t blink. “We don’t have time to argue. Either wear this or wear nothing.”

I stare. Surely they wouldn’t make me go naked... but that’s exactly what they’re saying. Not that the garment hanging from their hands is much better. It’s not what Wolf picked out for me, but it covers just as little. Less, even.

No choice.

I pull on the sheer sheath dress; it’s a deep-emerald shade that makes the most of my lightly tanned skin and long red hair. The person’s hands me a pair of strappy stiletto sandals, and I slide them on with only a grimace of protest.

Then it’s showtime. Or viewing time, apparently.

There are. . . pedestals.

A part of me had assumed that this was specifically a sex auction, but apparently that’s not the case. There are a handful of people perched on pedestals, but there are even more that hold everything from a priceless diamond neckless to famous art to a strange chalice that makes the small hairs on the back of my neck stand on end to a fuckingflower. Who auctions off a flower?

A cornflower blue dress catches my eye and I nearly trip over my feet when the details register. That dress has adorned Bryson women in at least two presidential inaugurations. Those bitches are like the Kennedys but even more powerful. What the hell is that dress doinghere?

I’m not the only person auctioning themselves—or being auctioned off either. There’s a petite blond woman who doesn’t make eye contact as I pass. She’s beautiful. I bet she’ll get a large bid.

I’m led to an empty pedestal near the end of the row and step carefully up to perch on it. There’s not much space, so I won’t be able to shift or even turn if I don’t want to risk falling right off it. It’s only twelve inches from the ground, but that would be humiliating.

Between one breath and the next, the lights drop, bathing the room in darkness. I have to clamp my jaw shut to keep from making a startled sound, but I hear at least a few people let one slip. It makes me feel less alone, even if I can no longer see anyone.

And then the spotlights turn on overhead. This time, I can’t stop myself from flinching. I couldn’t see much to begin with, but with the lights in my eyes, I might as well be onstage. I get the impression of doors opening, hear a murmur of people walking the aisles between us, but I can’t detect more than the faint outline of bodies.

It’s horrible . . . and kind of sexy.

---