Page 155 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

“I know, baby,” I said, my tone softening. “But you’ll see…”

She didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the floor. I reached out, gently lifting her chin so she had to look at me. “I’m not your enemy, Sloane. I’m on your side. Even if you hate me for it right now.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t pull away. For the first time since Everett’s call, I saw a flicker of something other than fear in her eyes. It wasn’t trust, not yet, but it was a start.

“Fine,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m just saying…handcuffs are not hero behavior.”

A small smile tugged at my lips. “Not trying to be a hero, Red. Just trying to keep my future wife safe.”

“There you go again…talking crazy,” she said sadly. “Whores don’t become wives.”

For the first time, the way she’d saidwhoresdidn’t have quite the same self-loathing as it had in the past.

I pressed a kiss to her lips and proceeded to lead her to the kitchen so I could make her breakfast. The handcuffs were staying on. “Good thing you never were one of those,” I finally told her over my shoulder.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue.

That was also a start.

CHAPTER42

LOGAN

The link to the auction room came through while Sloane and I were sitting anxiously in my office, my laptop open to some protected web browser that supposedly would keep me hidden from the feds. The PI had sent the auction link with a short message:This is your in.

Sloane sat beside me, perched on the edge of the leather chair like it might swallow her whole. Her hand that wasn’t still handcuffed to mine was clasped tightly in her lap, and she kept rubbing her thumb over her palm—a nervous tic I’d noticed she did when she was trying to hold herself together. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and she was staring at the laptop screen like it was a ticking bomb.

I was staring at it the same way. The auction was about to start, and I still hadn’t heard from Lincoln or received a wire transfer yet. Which meant I was about to start bidding with money I didn’t have.

I clicked on the link, and the screen loaded with a dimly lit room, where a video of Sloane appeared. Sloane gasped and averted her eyes from the tape as it began to play, and my stomach dropped. It was her, but not the Sloane I knew now. This was from before—before me, before anything resembling hope or love in her life. She was wearing some barely-there black lingerie, her walk deliberate and sexual, her expression vacant yet practiced. She was moving toward someone off-screen, and then she slowly sank to her knees.

The bile rose in my throat, and I looked away, unwilling to watch even apasther with another man.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured beside me, and I grabbed her hand.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Red,” I said sternly.

A chime rang out, and I stared at the screen again. The bidding was beginning.

I tightened my grip on the mouse, watching as the numbers began to climb. A million.

Okay, I could pay that myself.

Two million.

Five million.

Fuck.

The numbers began to make my head spin as I struggled to comprehend that this was an actual thing, buying people like this. There wasn’t a number that equaled what Sloane was worth—what any human being was worth.

But it was still money I didn’t have.

I glanced frantically at my phone, desperate to see something from Lincoln. But there was still nothing there.

Fuck. Where was he?

Sloane gripped my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Logan. You have to pay immediately if you win. You can’t make a bid if you can’t pay it. Please. Don’t even try.”

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