Page 184 of Auctioned

“Owner.” When she kneels between my legs, my world ceases to exist.

Her dark eyes suck me in into another planet. To another life, the one we’ll have after this. We could stay here and rule the law firm together. We could disappear. Buy an island. Another mansion in a different country.

I’d fuck one baby after the other into her. I’d worship her. Just us.

Except we’re not there yet.

Yet.

“Put it over there.” I jerk my head toward the end table between Oliver and me. She does. “Go ask Oliver where he’d like to have his.”

Both he and I track her movements as she stands up and lowers herself to her knees again before him.

Only one of us knows what’s behind her submissive act.

“Mr. Morgan.” He’s wise to keep his hands to himself. He can’t help the fire in his eyes, though. “Where should I put your drink?”

“On my?—”

Enough is enough. He doesn’t get to order her shit.

“On the table,” I growl. I couldn’t let him talk to her like that.

He shrugs, eye-fucking her, the bastard. It works in our favor, but goddamn it. I hate it. “Go ahead.”

She bites her lip, forcing his gaze there.

That way, he doesn’t look at her while she’s placing his drink next to mine.

He’s oblivious about where her hand goes next.

Under the skirt of her dress. Where her tight, white lace garter is.

Where the small paring knife is.

The one I sharpened for her.

The one she has in her grip.

He sees it when it’s too late.

Far too late.

“What the fuck is—” He’s swallowing the rest of that question.

The blade disappears in his throat. Ophelia buries it deep down, cutting through his skin. Viciously.

His mouth gapes. His fingers grasp the armrests. Eyes on me.

Most of my focus rests on Ophelia.

On the blood that’s trickling down the blade and onto her nails. Her hand.

Her white dress remains in pristine condition. Her lips are stretched in an unhinged grin. Her cheeks are red with how alive she is.

When I shot my father, I felt nothing but relief. There was nothing personal about pulling the trigger and blowing his head off.

His abuse was a thing of the past by the time I turned twenty-two.

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