Page 12 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

“Ten million,” a voice called out, louder than the rest. The room stilled, completely silent except for the sound of someone gasping.

Oh, that was me. It wasmyragged breaths filling the room. It wasmyheart racing so fast that it felt like it might burst out of my chest.

Everett’s grip tightened, and I could feel the smile on his lips, even though I couldn’t see it. He took a step forward, guiding me along with him. The masked men watched us, most of them leaning forward slightly, hungrily.

My knees buckled, and I stumbled forward, barely catching myself before I hit the ground. Everett grabbed my arm, his hand holding me tight.

“Going once,” Everett announced, his voice calm and controlled, like I hadn’t almost collapsed, like I wasn’t trembling under his touch. “Going twice.”

I sucked in a breath, forcing myself to stand straighter, even though my legs were shaking beneath me.

“Sold.”

The masked man who’d won stepped forward, grabbing my hand and immediately pulling me through the door into another guest suite. The door closed behind us, and the monster licked the side of my face as I was crowded against him, one arm wrapping around my chest as his other hand dragged up and down my body, cupping my core through my silk dress. Hot tears splashed on his arm, and he laughed cruelly.

“I’d easily pay twenty to have you, my sweet. It’s always better when they cry.”

And I did cry.

I cried when he ripped my dress from my shaking frame. I cried when he roughly violated me with his fingers and his mouth, and I cried when he pushed inside me.

When he was done with me, I stayed in that room, in that bed, and I stared out the window at a cloudless sky that was once again mocking me like it had that day my mother had been lowered into the ground.

All my tears had dried.

In the quiet aftermath of that terrible moment, when the world had finally gone still and the wreckage of everything I once knew lay scattered around me, I felt something inside me die. It wasn’t sudden, like the snap of a breaking bone; it was slow, like a flame choking beneath too much ash.

I’d been split open in ways I couldn’t even name, and the pieces that were left just didn’t fit anymore. My soul, once vibrant and full of those small, fragile hopes that had kept me moving forward through my mother’s addiction and death and the year of being passed from home to home like errant trash…it had dimmed to a flicker, barely there. It was as if the core of who I was had turned to glass—fragile, empty—and with every breath, more of it slipped away, leaving me hollow. The person I used to be was gone, lost in the quiet where there had once been life.

Now, there was only the ghost of who I had been, the power Everett had mentioned, nowhere to be found.

Maybe I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands and saved myself.

Maybe I’d destroyed myself instead.

But I’d chosen this…and there was no going back now.

CHAPTER2

SLOANE

FOUR YEARS LATER

Isat on the floor, cross-legged, sipping my French latte. The steam from the cup curled up toward my face as I stared at the painting I was working on. The strokes across the canvas felt dark and heavy, the moody blues and blacks swirling together in a way that felt suffocating, even to me.

The woman in the painting sat alone on an old pier, her back hunched, shoulders slumped under a cloudy night sky. The pier stretched out into an endless sea of dark, churning water, the whole scene drenched in shadows. It felt like looking into the heart of despair.

And that was the point.

I took another sip of my latte, the rich flavor tasting like ash on my tongue. The painting wasn’t supposed to be this way. It had started with a photograph I took in Majorca. That day had been…as close to perfect as I could get in my life. Sun shining, the water sparkling in the light, the sky a clear, endless blue. The woman in the photo had been of a local girl smiling, the sunlight bathing her skin and the pier in a warm glow.

But of course, whenI’dstarted painting, the picture had shifted. The happiness in the photograph had drained away with every brushstroke. Now, all that remained was a version of the scene that felt like it had been submerged in grief. It was as if I’d taken the original image and dunked it in anguish, letting it drown in the emotions I was careful not to let myself feel.

I set the cup down on the floor beside me, my fingers stained with paint from hours of work. I studied the brushstrokes—heavy, uneven, almost angry. The woman in the painting felt lost, isolated, grieving.

Like me.

I shook my head. All my paintings seemed to end up like this. I eyed the stacked canvases strewn all over the room, all of them macabre versions of the photos they’d been based on.

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