Page 51 of Auctioned

“Walk with me.” This isn’t a request. I pull one of our servers—Griffith, he said—out of the main room by his forearm. I drag him silently into the catering area without waiting for him to follow me.

Waiting is for the weak. For the second best. For the ones who aren’t in a position of power.

I am neither of those things.

On the contrary.

Out of everyone in our auction house, I’m at the top of the food chain.

Oliver can tell himself that we’re equal partners all he likes. I feed him that lie myself. It helps him sleep better at night. Makes him lower his guard too. Throughout the years, it’s the one thing that has ensured that he won’t try to backstab me.

But the truth—theabsolutetruth—is that I’ve been pulling the strings since we turned twenty-one.

It was me who decided how and when we murdered our fathers. When I had to kill my father ahead of schedule, Oliver followed suit.

The cases we take on, the people we hire? I sign off on those. Even the auction house. I don’t frequent the place, yet Oliver asks for my approval before he makes any big decision.

“Mr. Hawthorne, please.” Of course he knows me by name. My photo and name are a part of their orientation when they start working here. “I’ll follow you, I promise. Maybe you could tell me what I’ve done wrong. If you could just?—”

“Shut up.”

We’re away from prying eyes and inside the kitchen. I drag him farther inside, past our French brunette chef, who oversees five cooks who work for us. I don’t stop to watch them as they work seamlessly. Without the incessant noise of clinking pans and pots, or of any shouting, “You’re taking too long.”

They work in complete silence.

“Sir. Mr. Hawthorne, sir.” Despite his whispering, I still hear Griffith’s high-pitched voice. “Please, I’m not sure what I’ve done. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to make up for it. Please, let me fix it.”

We pass by tall stainless-steel shelves lining the walls. Porcelain plates imported from Copenhagen are perfectly organized on the shelves in groups of three. They’ll be taken down soon to serve the late dinner.

A consolation meal for those who lost the bidding wars.

The highest bidders and the sacrifices are supposed to be escorted out to start their awfully-ever-after.

The four of us will retire to our homes to start our week-long vacation.

Later.

The storage room is empty. I throw Griffith inside, shutting the door behind me.

“Please.” He hasn’t let go of his empty tray. He trembles. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His face turns into a nauseating shade of green. Sweat darkens his sandy blond hair.

And he still holds the tray.

I snatch it out of his hand, slamming it on an empty shelf to my right.

Now my fingers are free to go around his throat.

“Don’t hurt me. Please.” His blue eyes are oceans of fear. He either can’t or doesn’t bother masking it. “I have a wife. A newborn. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t hurt me.”

Music to my ears. That’s good. That’s really fucking good that he’s terrified of me. The few inches I have over him make him seem even weaker.

You don’t fuck over people who scare you.

“For now, I won’t.” I’d spend more time instilling fear in him. Problem is, I’m running out of it.

Alessandro is after Ophelia. While I couldn’t see his face, I saw hers. Her expression shifted when he tilted his head, looking away from Baylor.

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