Page 111 of The Delta's Rogue
I keep my eyes on them as the lights dim and the auctioneer speaks, reviewing the rules and procedures we all agreed to upon entering the event before we paid our good faith deposit.
I’m only half listening to him spout them off. It’s all a formality anyway. Everyone in attendance, aside from us, has been to at least one of these before.
I know I need to pay closer attention, but between the grimy atmosphere of the event, the thunderstorm tearing apart the sky outside, and my restless lycan, I’m on edge and on the defensive, ready to strike out and protect the others at a moment’s notice.
I leave the reconnaissance to Dominic for now and distract myself by watching Cassandra and Nolan. It’s not my first choice of distraction. They’re yet again doing this for me as a favor—and as a cover to get Cassandra in so she can block our auras if needed—as opposed to because they actually enjoy it. But watching them is the only thing helping to block out the auctioneer’s voice.
Nolan’s hands move beneath the bunched-up hem of her short green dress. He slips the dress up her body and over her head with precise, measured movements and drops it onto the couch cushion between us, which leaves her in only an unlined, lacy, gold bralette with triangle cups and a matching G-string.
A small puff of air passes through Cassandra’s lips as Nolan’s thumb brushes over her magically hidden mark, and his hand curls around her neck, mimicking the collar dottedwith golden daisies that’s clasped around her throat. Then his hand slides down, thumb tracing the edge of her bra and his palm scraping over her hardening nipples.
I finally look away from them, wiping my sweating hands on the tops of my thighs. It all reminds me too much of what I’m missing. Of how, under different circumstances, if Sarina was with me instead of in the clutches of sex traffickers, we could do this with Nolan and Cassandra for real. Of how we—Sarina and I—might actually enjoy a night at my club with them, tucked away in a booth, where Nolan and I could tease our girls and give the rest of the club a sneak peek of what we experience in private.
“Did you want a drink, Sir?”
I glance behind me at the female taking our drink orders long enough to notice she isn’t wearing lingerie or silver cuffs and a collar. She’s dressed in a flowing pure-white dress, a gold pin just below her left collarbone—a pin that’s too small for me to make out the design of.
“A bourbon. Whatever is your most expensive,” I say dismissively, turning away from her before I finish ordering.
My eyes reluctantly return to the theater, pinpointing the servers as they meander through the space taking orders and delivering drinks. Each wears a white dress and the same gold pin as the girl who took our drink orders. Each noticeably doesn’t wear a silver collar or cuffs.
“The servers aren’t slaves,”I point out to Dominic.
“I noticed that too,”he replies.“They may still be unwilling participants, though.”
I nod my response and lean forward with my elbows on my knees, forcing myself to watch the proceedings as a girl appears on the stage. Heavy, dark makeup is plastered on her face. Her blonde hair is pin-straight, and the ends brush against the tops of her shoulders. Her lingerie is so skimpy she might as well be wearing nothing at all.
The trap floor halts its movements, and the two assistants guide her off the platform and to the edge of the stage, where she’s instructed to pose. She drops to her knees, leaving them parted slightly, her back arched and eyes lowered.
Just like Sarina did the night we spent together in her tent.
“The starting price for Kaci is seven thousand dollars,” the male with the microphone says.
The bids start rolling in. Robotic voices shout out numbers, distorted and disguised by voice-masking technology to maintain suspense and the bidders’ anonymity. The computerized voices add to the cruel inhumanity of the entire situation.
I curl one hand into a fist and clasp the other hand around it, teeth gritted against the boiling anger inside me.
All of this is wrong. So wrong.
My skin crawls as the bids climb higher and higher. My suit feels too tight as they come in faster and faster, until each of the bidders drops out, leaving one as the winner.
“Sold! For twenty-three thousand dollars to bidder number 547!”
On and on it goes. Girl after girl is brought out and sold, the winning bids increasing with each one.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Thirty-one thousand dollars.
Thirty-seven thousand dollars.
Forty thousand dollars.
Seventy-six thousand dollars.
One hundred and two thousand dollars.
Once sold, the girls are led into the audience to their new owner or taken backstage to a private room, depending on what the winner wants. The majority choose to show off their new girls out in the open, forcing them to strip down to nothing and kneel at their feet for all to see.
