Page 85 of Only for Him
At eighty thousand, the buyers start to thin—only the men at the head table are left, bidding in small, smug increments.
Roman holds up his card, voice clear. “Three hundred thousand.”
A gasp ripples through the room. Sokolov grins, nods. “Three hundred! Do I hear three ten?”
A banker Roman had pointed out to me before raises his card. “Three ten.”
Roman, again. “Four hundred.”
There’s a groan of disappointment. Some of the men are angry, but most are impressed. This is no longer about money but dominance.
Sokolov nods again. “Four hundred. Going once, going twice?—”
The girl on stage looks out at the crowd, scanning the masks, and for a second, her eyes settle on mine. I can’t move. I can’t even blink.
We’re going to save you,I think, trying to telepathically send the message.
But she just looks away.
“Sold,” Sokolov says, “to 247.”
Roman puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in close. His smell slithers through my rage, finding footholds in my brain. I’m not turned on, I’m far too distraught for that, but I am calmer.
More grounded.
“We go to the next room now,” he says, “and we wait.”
I want to kill him for bringing me here. Putting me through this.
Puttingyouthrough this? Just imagine how that girl feels. All he did was show you what’s been happening right under your goddamn nose.
My hands are shaking but empty, the only weapon at my disposal is my own disgust.
Roman takes my arm, his fingers pressing into the soft curve of my bicep, hard enough that it will leave bruises.
I hope that I’m still alive to watch them bloom.
I need to stay calm if I want to be sure of that.
We’re escorted through another door, into a smaller room with a round table and a mirror that is obviously two-way.
Together, we walk deeper into the nightmare.
23
ROMAN
The room isa cell with a king bed, a mirrored ceiling, and more restraint options than a maximum-security ward.
Every surface is soundproofed, which is both a mercy and a horror. The walls are black and padded with soft vinyl meant to look like leather and the headboard is studded with steel rings for whoever wants to get creative.
There are sex toys everywhere: some in the open, some in tasteful cases lined up on the glass-topped dresser.
I hate it. I hate all of these rooms. I taste ash as I picture myself setting fire to it. Even the carpet stinks of the sick things it’s seen.
At the same time, it’s the safest place for us—and the girl—to be.
The door locks from the outside. I check it anyway, just to feel the give of the frame under my hand. I test the hinges, the baseboard, the plate where the handle bolts into the wood.
