Page 2 of Savage Don's Captive

My turn. Heels click against marble, echoing like a countdown. Somewhere behind velvet doors, men with offshore accounts and imported scotch are clicking, ‘add to cart.’

“Bidding closed,” Steel-Hair mutters to the woman. “Gold mask exceeded expectations.”

I catch the tail end: “three million for The Sanctum of Grace.” The woman who recognized my mother, gives me a wry smirk.

We reassemble, and Steel-Hair.’s plastered-on smile makes me want to shower for a week.

“Excellent work, ladies. The patrons have made their selections.” He checks his tablet like it’s scripture.

“Tonight’s about natural connection—your buyers will approach throughout the evening.” His lips curl into something that’s supposed to resemble warmth but lands somewhere between predatory and clinical.

Natural connection…yeah, right.

His gaze sweeps the room, lingering a beat too long on me. “Remember—the most powerful men in the world are behind those doors.

Discretion is everything. Whatever happens tonight stays behind these walls,” he adds. “And ladies?” His tone drops. “Onceinside, the doors lock—no leaving until sunrise. For your protection, of course.”

My fingers brush the knife strapped to my thigh. Some lessons die hard—like the ones my mother taught me before she died.

The ballroom opens before us like the mouth of a beast. Chandeliers drip light over marble and mahogany. Men in masks watch from the shadows, their gazes calculating. Appraising.

One story. One headline. One night to tear it all down.

I scan the room, calculating my odds. Masked men circling like sharks. The pit of my stomach tightens as I catch one in a silver mask watching me, nodding to the coordinator—shit, that might be him. My buyer. The thought makes my skin crawl.

The dance floor is a trap—too exposed, too easy to be cornered. I need a space where I can still observe everything, where whoever purchased me will have to approach me head on.

I head straight for the bar, pressing myself between two groups of Wall Street types, too busy comparing yachts to notice me. A perfect spot—my back to the wall, full view of the room, crowd between me and whatever entitled bastard thinks I’m his for the taking tonight.

Keep your shoulders back, Alessa. Stay cool. Let them think you’re just another society girl, coached and polished for the evening’s entertainment.

“Bourbon,” I tell the bartender, voice steady despite the hammering in my chest. “On the rocks.”

Then I feel it.

A heavy, assessing gaze. I don’t turn right away. Instead, I lift my bourbon to my lips, willing my pulse to slow. When I finally glance to my left, he’s watching me like he knows exactly what I am. And worse—like he knows I don’t belong here.

Dark suit. Ruby-red mask. A cigarillo burning lazily between tattooed fingers. His smirk is slow and knowing, like he’s seen a hundred girls like me come through these doors and already knows how this ends.

He exhales a curl of smoke, eyes flicking to my untouched drink. “A word of advice,piccola. The hard liquor here burns.”

His voice—smooth and deep like aged whiskey—slides over my skin with the kind of effortless command that makes people listen. Makes them obey.

I raise an eyebrow, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “Maybe I like the burn.”

His smirk widens. “No. You like the idea of it.”

The way he says it—so damn certain—makes something sharp coil in my chest.

Don’t engage. Get your story and get out.

But the bourbon is warm, and my pulse is thrumming in my ears—and if I walk away now, he wins whatever game we’re suddenly playing. Plus, there’s something about him—the tattoos, the confidence, the way he stands apart from the other guys here—that screams headline material.

The kind of source you don’t find twice.

I tilt my head, giving him the same once-over he gave me. “Let me guess. You’re here looking for love?”

He laughs. “Love? In this den of vipers? Fuck no,” he leans in just enough for me to catch the scent of tobacco mingled with something dark and woody that makes my pulse quicken.

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