White masks mean you’re selling. Black means you’re buying. Red means you’re for sale. Black and red? Taken, but up for sharing. Silver means you’re owned—exclusive. Gold means you’re an owner, not a buyer. A declaration of status. A line no one crosses unless invited.
It’s all theater. Beautiful. Grotesque. The auction ends in what they call “indulgence hour.” A fucking orgy.
Those purchased are expected to submit. Unless they’re married. That’s the only out. Which is why Knox and Sloane arecoming. If they see someone worth saving, they’ll buy them and pull them out of this hell.
The rest of us? We’re here for names. For blood. For Alice. If we find her, we end it. But if we don’t? Then we burn everything she’s built to the ground and salt the ashes.
Thebedroomishushed.With silence that feels sacred and dangerous all at once. The air is thick with old wood, warm dust, and the faintest trace of her shampoo drifting from under the bathroom door.
The tuxedo is stiff, too sharp at the edges. I don’t belong in things this formal. The fabric pulls tight across my chest, the collar biting at my throat. I look the part of a man who belongs in boardrooms. But I feel more like a wolf wrapped in silk.
I hear the soft creak of the bathroom door. Then footsteps. Then her. Candace steps into the room, and the world tilts sideways. My mouth goes dry.
The black gown wraps around her, sewn with sin in mind. Lace curves over her hips and bust, teasing skin I’ve already memorized. The slit in her dress climbs high, revealing one long leg that makes my thoughts derail.
She’s barefoot, the heels still in her hand, her hair in loose curls over one shoulder. Her mask dangles from her fingers, forgotten. But it’s the way she looks at me, eyes roaming over the tux as if seeing me for the first time, that nearly undoes me.
“Say something,” she whispers.
I cross the room, pulled forward by a force I can’t explain. “You expect me to form a coherent thought with you looking like that?”
Her lips curve, but there’s a flicker of something behind it, vulnerability. The kind she rarely lets show. It punches straight through my ribs.
I reach out and skim my hand over her hip, my fingers brushing lace and skin, and it burns. “You’re gonna ruin me tonight, Sour Patch.”
She lifts her chin in challenge. “Then die happy.”
Challenge accepted.I pull her into me, one hand sliding up her spine, the other curling around her jaw. She gasps softly, and I swallow the sound as I crush my mouth to hers. It starts slow; a question forming between us. But I don’t want answers. I want absolution.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, her body arches into mine, her kiss all teeth, heat, and desperation. Each motion betrays the wreckage under her skin. Or barely holding it together.
Her palm presses against my chest, right over my heart, not to push me away. That touch steadies her there. Maybe that beat beneath her hand is the only thing she trusts. I break the kiss, but stay close. Her lips are swollen, breath shaky.
“When we get back,” I murmur against her skin, “I’m going to peel this dress off one whisper at a time. I’m going to kiss you until your knees give out, then keep going until you forget the auction even existed. I’ll worship you until you’re dripping. Begging. Coming so hard you forget your own name.”
Her eyes are molten. She sways into me, her body saying what her mouth doesn’t.
I press my forehead to hers again, my hands grounding her, or maybe grounding me. Because after tonight, everything changes. One way or another, we won’t be the same again.
Chapter 56
Candace
Therearemorepeoplehere than I expected. A sea of masks, silk, secrets, moving in slow motion with the precision of predators. Every face is hidden behind painted porcelain, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel what they are. Hungry.
The scent hits first, opulence and rot. Expensive cologne barely masking sour nerves, perfume drowning beneath layers of sweat and fear. My stomach knots. The masked smiles resemble warning signs more than disguises.
I keep my head down and my hands in my lap, fingers laced tight enough to make the bones ache. Malachi sits close beside me, too close to be casual, but not enough to draw attention. His black mask marks him as a buyer, but he’s not here to purchase anyone. He’s here for me. For answers. And he’s not letting me out of his sight.
I can feel the heat of his presence pressed to my skin, the way his gaze flicks constantly around the room, never settlingfor long. Every time his thigh brushes mine, a pulse stutters low in my belly. I don’t move. I don’t dare. Not because I want to run, but because I’m afraid of what would happen if I leaned in instead.
Victor and Olivia are seated just down from us, another set of black masks, but no one speaks. No one needs to. The tension in the room speaks for itself.
Knox and Sloane are positioned to our left, elegant and unreadable. He’s in a crisp tux, and she’s a vision in dark green satin, their masks blending in with the dangerous opulence of this place. Nash and East are here too, scattered throughout the crowd in separate positions, acting as eyes and ears. Surveillance.
This whole place feels torn from the depths of a nightmare I can’t wake from. A masquerade for monsters. And we’re pretending to be one of them. An announcement echoes through the speakers overhead, smooth and cold.
“The auction will begin shortly.”
