Page 111 of Claimed By the Psychos
The auctioneer is practically orgasming over the bidding war. "Fifteen million! Do I hear sixteen?"
Carlisle raises his paddle with the kind of casual arrogance that only comes from having more money than a prince and the morals of a particularly creative serial killer. "Twenty million."
The room goes quiet for a second, then buzzes with speculation. Who's the new player dropping that kind of money? Carlisle plays it perfectly, looking bored already, like twentymillion for a human being is pocket change he found in his couch cushions.
Then again, considering how much he's spent on our operations, he might actually have that much lying around.
"Twenty million going once... going twice..."
Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. There's a man near the back exit who doesn't fit. Everyone else is watching the stage with varying degrees of hunger, but this guy's scanning the room. His suit's expensive but it doesn't sit right, like he's not used to wearing it. And there's a bulge under his left armpit that's definitely not a wallet.
"Possible tango," I mutter into the comm. "Southeast corner, moving toward the hallway. I'm going to check it out."
"Copy," Bane responds. "Maintain visual if possible."
I slip out of the box, moving through the hallway with the kind of silence that comes from years of training and too many missions in hostile territory. The carpet muffles my footsteps, and I keep to the shadows cast by the ornate light fixtures.
The guy's ahead of me, moving with purpose now. He's definitely security of some kind, but not the standard hired muscle for the auction. This is someone else's player.
"SOLD!" The auctioneer's voice echoes through the building. "To bidder number forty-two for twenty million dollars!"
It probably is pocket change for Carlisle, but any price would be insulting. Juniper's priceless. You can't put a number on someone who survived hell and came out laughing, who can make you feel like the most important person in the world just by curling up in your lap at three in the morning.
The suspicious guy pushes through an exit door, and I follow at a safe distance. The door leads to a loading dock area of concrete and industrial lighting that's a harsh contrast to the opulence inside. He pulls out a cigarette, and I almost laugh at the anticlimax.
"False alarm," I report, watching him light up with hands that shake slightly from the adrenaline of the hunt. "Target just needed a smoke break. Heading back inside."
"Copy that," Bane says. "Stay sharp. Something still feels off about tonight."
"That's the idea, isn't it?" Elias finally chimes in from wherever he's hiding. Probably gathering more intel from the other attendees for our next bust. The doctor is nothing but thorough.
I turn to head back inside, already thinking about the next phase of the plan. Carlisle has Juniper or soon will, which means they'll be heading to the "collection" area. Felix will be with them, playing the handler delivering the merchandise. Then we just have to wait for?—
Pain explodes across the back of my skull.
The world tilts sideways, darkness creeping in from the edges of my vision like the living shadows Juniper sees. I try to turn, try to fight, but my legs won't cooperate. They've turned to water, to nothing, to?—
A second hit, and everything goes soft and hazy. I'm vaguely aware of hands grabbing me, of being dragged, but it's all happening to someone else. Someone far away.
The last coherent thought I have before the darkness takes me is that Bane was right.
Something was definitely off about tonight.
Then nothing.
Chapter
Forty-One
FELIX
The applause makes my skin crawl as I guide Juniper offstage, her body trembling under my hand at the small of her back. She's still in character, head down, playing the docile omega to perfection, but I can feel the murderous rage from her like heat from a forge. The second we're past the heavy velvet curtains and out of sight, she straightens, that submissive mask dropping like she's shedding poisoned skin.
"Fuck," she breathes, pressing her back against the wall. "That was sickening."
"You did great," I tell her, checking the hallway in both directions. Empty for now, just industrial lighting and the lingering scent of fear from omegas who've walked this path before. "Oscar-worthy performance."
"I need a shower." She scrubs at her arms like she can wash off the memory of all those eyes on her, evaluating her like meat. "A really long shower with really hot water and maybe some industrial lye."
