Page 17 of Auctioned

JAMES

“ S old to Mrs. Johnson,” Camden announces when I return to the room, ten steps behind Griffith.

The server rushes inside. He rubs his arms. Good to know the unnerving effect I had on him hasn’t waned.

“Please.” A weeping Baylor is being escorted off to the back of the stage.

Just in time for Griffith to lean into Starlee’s ear.

“An anonymous—I—What? Are you out of your mind?” Her forehead scrunches. Green eyes furious. Her hair is pulled into a low twist, exposing her reddening nape. Griffith is pale white. “Who the hell do you think you are to fucking?—”

I move to stand on her other side. “Starlee.”

“Mr. Hawthorne.” Her gaze snaps up to me. “Please, ignore us. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“No misunderstanding.” A sigh of relief rushes out of Griffith. He’s about to have a coronary. “An acquaintance of mine placed the call. Griffith ran it by me. It’s fine.”

“Hello, everyone,” Topher speaks with calm confidence.

His shoulders are relaxed. Chin up. A true Hawthorne man.

I would’ve been proud had I not been furious about how thrilled his eyes are.

Had I not been drawn like a goddamn magnet to the woman he’s guiding to the front of the stage.

“This is Ophelia Louise Monroe. She is…”

“Are you sure?” Starlee whispers over Topher’s introduction.

I don’t care that I can’t hear him. Whatever he’s telling the crowd about her, it’s lacking.

There aren’t enough words in the English language to describe her. An innocent seductress. A filthy angel. An infuriating distraction.

Or maybe there is a word.

Demise.

My demise.

Topher won’t use any of those words anyway. He was brought up to not care about anyone. To not need. Way before Oliver talked to him about the initiation. About the other things.

You’re not supposed to give a shit, either.

Too bad I noticed Ophelia. I’ll make her belly swell with a baby, then it’ll go away. I’ll be myself again, then I’ll send her off somewhere safe. Somewhere far enough so her presence won’t fuck with my head.

I’ll forget she ever existed.

It’ll be just me and our child. Whether Topher is a part of my new life or not, it’s entirely up to him.

“Positive.”

“…she’s an orphan if you’re into women with Daddy issues.” A smirk curves on my son’s lips.

My nostrils flare at his cruel joke. My muscles strain against my thousand-dollar tux.

He’s turning our ceremony into a circus. A stand-up comedy show. That’s why I’m seconds away from launching at the stage and throttling my only child.

This has nothing to do with how he’s talking about her. About what’s mine.

Mine .

Killing him right here and now won’t bode well for me. The guards might act on impulse and shoot me on the spot.

Ophelia could be kidnapped by someone who will take advantage of the chaos.

They could steal what’s mine.

Ophelia isn’t mine.

Yet.

Never.

More words come out of Topher’s mouth. Trivial facts.

Like how she dropped out of college despite being at the top of her class. That she loves the color black. She likes to read.

Someone who truly cared about her would’ve had so much more to say about Ophelia.

I stop listening to him and look at her. Though she’s shorter than Topher by over a foot, she makes herself look taller. Stares me dead in the eye.

Unblinking, I stare back. I show her that she hasn’t won this round. I’m the man who doesn’t give a shit. Who doesn’t have an emotional bone in his body.

I’m the one who thinks about her as a womb. As my property.

I appraise her like a piece of art. A painting that might or might not fit into my living room.

I’m being an asshole as I scan her body from her beautiful face and down to her toes. A true bastard. Cold as a rotting corpse.

I feel nothing—absolutely nothing—as I gaze at the swell of her breasts beneath the lace dress. Her peaked nipples. The dip of her stomach and that tight pussy between her legs.

When I return to her face, there’s fire in her eyes. Hatred even.

The way she switches between fear, loathing, lust, and hatred is otherworldly.

Beautiful.

Infuriating.

I have to remind myself where and who I am to stop my dick from getting so. Fucking. Hard.

“Kitten has claws too.” The end of Topher’s introduction has me snapping my head at him. “I’m sure that those of you who get off on taming your playthings would love that.”

Oliver and Camden have matching wicked grins stretching across their faces. Murmurs are a wildfire breaking across the rows of chairs, and they don’t stop. Everyone’s curious. Everyone’s talking.

About what’s mine.

Everyone except Alessandro. He ignores Brooks Callahan, the head of the Irish mob. Whatever he says to him doesn’t make him twist his head to the redheaded man. He doesn’t so much as bat his hand away when he taps on his shoulder.

Ophelia steals all of his focus. He’s staring at her while she bows her head. That motherfucker. He’s imagining her in his bed, no doubt. Picturing her trying to escape. Trying to fight him.

He’ll tear her apart.

Mine .

The notion is my fuel, propelling me to take one step forward. The next, and?—

“Show us!” a man calls out, stopping me in my tracks. “Make her fight you!”

This isn’t how the initiation auction is supposed to go. The buyers aren’t supposed to raise their voices like Camden encouraged them to. We’re not some cheap, lowlife establishment.

Worse still. No one treats Ophelia as if she’s a property. No one but me.

Another step.

“Quiet.” Topher gives me the bare, minimal hope that he’s realized his mistake. His free hand slices through the air. The crowd falls into silence.

As do I. On the inside, though, I’m boiling. Shouting at him to get the hell away from her.

I’ve never been this possessive. This infuriated. A rope cinches my lungs.

My hands burn with the need to grab Ophelia and get her the hell out of here.

“People, please. You’re better than this,” he continues. “This shouting. It’s unacceptable.”

Ophelia sucks in a deep breath. They might not be shouting anymore, but it doesn’t mean the worst is behind her. Not knowing what to expect is killing her. I feel her emotions as if I’m experiencing them myself.

It’s maddening.

“But since one of you will be paying for her…”

My pulse slows. My brain goes in a million directions.

I shouldn’t defend her. Shouldn’t think about how I’d kill anyone who doesn’t treat her well, my son included.

Her pain belongs to me. She belongs to me.

“I’ll do it.” Topher chuckles, and my heart beats louder. “I’ll show you. Ophelia.”

Her eyes squint as she glowers at him.

“You won’t be walking to the exam table.” His hand on her chin is an insult. I’m soaking in butane, ready to detonate at any given moment. “You’ll crawl there. For our entertainment.”

Crawl.

Ophelia on her hands and knees. For them.

Crawl.

Her ass swaying as she moves across the floor.

She’ll be beneath us.

Beneath Topher.

Beneath all. These. People.

Crawl.

“You’re insane.” She seethes.

A man calls out, “Yes! Fight him!”

“Crawl,” he hisses the same word that plays on repeat in my head. “On the ground. Now.”

“Fuck you.” Her escape attempts from his grip are just that. Attempts. As brave as she is, she fails, staying right where he wants her.

I’m not going to let this happen.

He won’t be yanking her to the floor. Other people won’t witness the gynecologist touching her. Probing her. Examining her.

She’s nothing but a womb to me. But that doesn’t make her any less mine.

There’ll be hell to pay. For this contempt and ridicule.

Later.

I move up next to Griffith, taking advantage of the calamity in the room. Of how Starlee won’t hear me when I hiss to him, “Now. Start bidding this fucking moment.”

“But Mr. Hawthorne.” The smell of his sweat is rancid, burning my nose.

“I’m not crawling!”

“Now, Griffith.”

“Mr. Hawthorne hasn’t announced?—”

“I’ll bring ten men to rape your wife before I kill her with my own two hands. While you watch.”

I take a step back. Arms across my chest.

“Six million!” he yells so loud that Topher hears him over the laughter and excited chatter.

Heads turn. Ophelia and Topher stop wrestling on stage.

My son cocks his head. A predator. “What did you say?”

Griffith isn’t fazed. He knows the more dangerous predator is standing right behind him. Breathing down his neck. “Six million. An anonymous buyer would like to have her. No check-up needed.”

That pleases me. The anger that’s rippled through me settles further when Topher furrows his brow at Starlee. She offers him a firm nod.

I lick my lips. Steeling my posture, my expression. Staring straight ahead.

No one will see any emotion on my face.

Least of all, Ophelia. I’ve given her enough power over me. This ends here.

“Eight,” Alessandro barks. No hesitation.

“Nine.” Fucking Griffith. I would’ve bid higher for her. So much higher.

Shut the hell up.

No one cares about watching Ophelia crawl or be examined anymore. They’re going wild over her.

Bidding. Shouting. Cursing.

You’d think they were sailors. The chief of the NYPD or a woman from Congress. The rest of them.

Disdainful.

Heat prickles my skin. She’s staring at me; I can sense Ophelia’s dark eyes trying to bore holes into my skull.

I ignore her.

Eventually, when the bids go as high as eighteen million, the enthusiasm sizzles.

“Nineteen.” Alessandro’s voice is as unwavering as it was on the first bid.

“Twenty-one.” Griffith’s confidence has grown over the last few seconds. I wonder if he has any idea who he’s gone to a bidding war against.

“Twenty-three.”

The silence in the room is deafening. Ear-piercing.

It’s then that I allow myself to find her gaze. Briefly. Then my son’s.

He’s gloating. Hardly holding on to her arm anymore. She probably ceased to matter the moment her highest bid surpassed Camden’s final bid.

A movement in my periphery. Alessandro finally twists in his chair. His narrowed glare shoots daggers at Griffith, who remains firm in his place.

The air crackles, tension filling the air.