The first time I saw him, I was already bought and paid for.
The auction room smelled of expensive cigars, whiskey, and fear. Crystal chandeliers threw cold light over the long table where men in tailored suits sat like they owned the world. I stood on the raised platform in a thin white slip that left almost nothing to the imagination, wrists bound loosely in front of me with black silk. My stepfather had sold me an hour ago for three million dollars and a debt wiped clean.
I kept my eyes on the floor until the room went quiet.
Then I looked up.
He was seated at the head of the table, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, a glass of something dark in his hand. Older than the others—mid-forties, maybe. Black hair streaked with silver at the temples. Sharp jaw. Eyes the color of wet a
