Page 55 of Auctioned

Mine.

Killing him right here and now won’t bode well for me. The guards might act on impulse and shoot me on the spot.

Ophelia could be kidnapped by someone who will take advantage of the chaos.

They could steal what’s mine.

Ophelia isn’t mine.

Yet.

Never.

More words come out of Topher’s mouth. Trivial facts.

Like how she dropped out of college despite being at the top of her class. That she loves the color black. She likes to read.

Someone who truly cared about her would’ve had so much more to say about Ophelia.

I stop listening to him and look at her. Though she’s shorter than Topher by over a foot, she makes herself look taller. Stares me dead in the eye.

Unblinking, I stare back. I show her that she hasn’t won this round. I’m the man who doesn’t give a shit. Who doesn’t have an emotional bone in his body.

I’m the one who thinks about her as a womb. As my property.

I appraise her like a piece of art. A painting that might or might not fit into my living room.

I’m being an asshole as I scan her body from her beautiful face and down to her toes. A true bastard. Cold as a rotting corpse.

I feel nothing—absolutely nothing—as I gaze at the swell of her breasts beneath the lace dress. Her peaked nipples. The dip of her stomach and that tight pussy between her legs.

When I return to her face, there’s fire in her eyes. Hatred even.

The way she switches between fear, loathing, lust, and hatred is otherworldly.

Beautiful.

Infuriating.

I have to remind myself where and who I am to stop my dick from getting so. Fucking. Hard.

“Kitten has claws too.” The end of Topher’s introduction has me snapping my head at him. “I’m sure that those of you who get off on taming your playthings would love that.”

Oliver and Camden have matching wicked grins stretching across their faces. Murmurs are a wildfire breaking across the rows of chairs, and they don’t stop. Everyone’s curious. Everyone’s talking.

About what’s mine.

Everyone except Alessandro. He ignores Brooks Callahan, the head of the Irish mob. Whatever he says to him doesn’t make him twist his head to the redheaded man. He doesn’t so much as bat his hand away when he taps on his shoulder.

Ophelia steals all of his focus. He’s staring at her while she bows her head. That motherfucker. He’s imagining her in his bed, no doubt. Picturing her trying to escape. Trying to fight him.

He’ll tear her apart.

Mine.

The notion is my fuel, propelling me to take one step forward. The next, and?—

“Show us!” a man calls out, stopping me in my tracks. “Make her fight you!”

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