Page 16 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

DANTE

I watch each girl be led to slaughter, memorizing faces, building my rage into a weapon.

Jessica—God, she looks like a senior in high school —stumbles as they guide her onto the platform.

Her terror is palpable even from my seat in the back—the way her hands shake, how she keeps looking toward the exits like a trapped animal.

I look at her buyer’s face—a tech mogul from San Francisco named Harrison Webb who smiles as he raises his paddle like he’s bidding on a vintage car. Webb’s company donated millions to children’s charities last year.

The irony would be laughable if it weren’t so sickening.

Madame Rouge’s voice drones on. “Sold for 3.2 million to Mr. Webb.” Applause ripples through the room—actual fucking applause for the purchase of a human being. Webb looks pleased with his acquisition, already pulling out his phone to make arrangements.

Behind him, a woman in diamonds leans over to congratulate him like he’s just bought a prized racehorse.

“Excellent choice, Harrison,” she purrs. “So young, so trainable. You’ll have years of enjoyment.”

The casual nature of their discussion makes bile rise in my throat. These aren’t criminals operating in shadows—they’re society’s elite, treating human trafficking like a wine auction.

Next to me, Viktor hasn’t stopped smirking since our confrontation this morning—when he’d interrupted my precious few minutes with Sofia, his suspicious eyes taking in our position by the window, the way her dress had been slightly disheveled, the flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with hope.

“Quite thorough in your inspection, Volkov,” Viktor had drawled, his gaze lingering on Sofia’s face with predatory interest. “One might think you know the merchandise personally.”

I’d forced Dmitri’s cold laugh, stepping away from Sofia though every instinct screamed to stay close. “In my business, attention to detail means profit.”

“Indeed.” Viktor had circled us like a shark, noting how Sofia’s breathing had changed when I touched her shoulder—not with fear, but with recognition. “And what business is that, exactly? Your file was … remarkably sparse.”

That should have been my first warning. Viktor had done his homework, found the gaps in my cover identity. But I’d been too focused on Sofia, on the way she’d leaned into my touch for just a moment before catching herself.

As Jessica stumbles off the stage, tears streaming down her face, the room buzzes with excited chatter. I catch fragments of conversation.

“Did you see how she trembled? Exquisite fear response…”

“Webb always goes for the youngest. Claims they adapt better to training…”

“My compound in Dubai could use fresh entertainment…”

Each word is a nail driven into my already fraying control. Viktor watches my reaction carefully, noting how my lips press together, how my hand grips my champagne glass with white knuckles.

“Such passion in your eyes, Volkov,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “Almost like you take this personally.”

I force Dmitri’s cold smile, loosening my grip on the glass. “Quality merchandise deserves appreciation.”

“Indeed. Though one wonders what…appreciation …might entail.” His tone is loaded with implication. “I noticed your inspection this morning was quite thorough. Very hands-on for being…limited.”

The memory plays on loop in my mind. I’d had exactly one hour with her—one hour to prepare her, to give her hope, to fight every instinct that screamed at me to grab her and run.

The blue suite had been elegant, designed to make buyers feel comfortable while they “evaluated” their potential purchases. Sofia had been waiting when I arrived, dressed in something cream-colored that made her look like a virgin sacrifice.

The sight of her in that room—my Sofia reduced to merchandise—had nearly shattered me.

“Principessa,” I’d breathed, dropping Dmitri’s accent the moment the door closed. We had maybe thirty seconds before the cameras would seem suspicious.

She’d turned, and the relief in her eyes nearly made my legs give out. “Dante.” Just my name, but it carried everything—fear, hope, trust.

I’d crossed to her quickly, making it look like an inspection. My hands had found her arms, checking for injuries while I whispered against her ear. “Are you hurt? Have they touched you?”

“No. Not yet.” Her voice had been steady, but I’d felt the tremor in her shoulders. “The private viewings … they’re getting worse. More invasive.”

The thought of other men’s hands on her had made me see red. “Tonight,” I’d promised, my fingers ghosting over her collarbone where makeup covered a bruise—probably from their rough handling during transport. “When the lights go out, east exit. Count to ten, then run. Don’t stop for anything.”

“How long?” she’d whispered, her lips barely moving as I traced what looked like an examination down her arm.

“Marco’s team is in position. Irish backup on the perimeter. I’ll get you out.”

“The others—” it was a plea.

“All of them,” I murmured. Like hell I would leave these poor girls to suffer a fate worse than death. “ I promise.”

She’d leaned into my touch then, just for a moment, and I’d had to fight every instinct not to gather her close. “I knew you’d come,” she said softly. “I never doubted.”

The trust in her voice had nearly unmanned me. “I’ll always come for you, Sofia. Always .”

“Dante—”

That’s when Viktor had burst in, his eyes sharp as they took in the scene.

Sofia had composed herself instantly, stepping back with just the right amount of nervousness for a girl being examined by a potential buyer.

But not before Viktor caught something—the familiarity in our positioning, the trust that went beyond buyer and merchandise.

Now, hours later, that moment hangs between us like a loaded gun. Viktor knows something’s wrong.

Another girl—Natalie—is led onto the stage next, moving like a sleepwalker in her emerald dress. The moment she appears, the room’s energy shifts—these predators sense complete submission, and it excites them.

“Look at that compliance,” someone whispers behind me. “Perfectly trained already.”

“No spirit left to break,” agrees another voice. “Some buyers prefer that.”

The bidding for her is brutal and swift—these men sense her complete compliance and bid accordingly. Paddles flash up around the room like a feeding frenzy. Five million. Five-five. Six.

“Beautiful work,” Viktor comments, watching Natalie stand motionless under the lights. “Madame Rouge has such…effective methods. I heard she broke this one with just words. No physical damage at all—very economical.”

He’s probing again, watching for my reaction to the casual discussion of psychological torture. I keep my expression neutral, though every word makes me want to throw up.

“Efficient,” I agree, as if discussing a business process rather than the destruction of a young woman’s mind.

The Saudi prince in the front row raises his paddle with obvious satisfaction. Around him, his entourage nods approvingly—they’ve been shopping for this type of “merchandise.”

Broken. Compliant. Already defeated.

“6.2 million,” the auctioneer calls. “Going once, going twice…sold to His Highness!”

More applause, more congratulations. The prince stands to acknowledge the accolades like he’s just won a goddamn charity auction. Behind him, his security detail is already coordinating transport arrangements, discussing the girl like cargo to be shipped.

Viktor claps slowly, deliberately. “Magnificent presentation. One can only imagine the…training…that went into achieving such perfect submission.” His eyes never leave my face. “Tell me, Volkov, do you prefer your acquisitions pre-trained, or do you enjoy the breaking process yourself?”

The question is designed to trap me—too clinical an answer reveals professional knowledge, too emotional reveals personal investment. Either way, Viktor wins.

“Depends on intended use,” I reply carefully. “Some applications require…customization.”

“Ah, a connoisseur.” Viktor’s smile grows wider. “I find the initial resistance adds to the experience. The gradual erosion of will, the moment when hope finally dies in their eyes…quite intoxicating.”

Around us, other buyers nod knowingly. This isn’t unusual conversation for them—they’re discussing the systematic destruction of human beings as if one was talking about the weather.

My phone vibrates against my leg. James’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “Teams in position. Ready when you are.”

I adjust my disguise, the prosthetics itching against my skin as sweat beads beneath the adhesive. The room feels too warm, too close, like the walls are contracting around us. “Status on north entrance?” I demand quietly, my lips barely moving behind my champagne glass.

“Clear.” A pause that lasts too long. “Though satellite shows movement near the east wing.”

My blood chills. The east wing is where I told Sofia to run. “That’s not possible,” Marco cuts in through the comm, his voice tight with concern. “We’ve got that sector locked down.”

“Signals are unclear,” James says smoothly, too smoothly. “Interference from?—”

Static cuts through the feed like a knife, leaving only the sound of my own breathing and the auctioneer’s voice reiterating Natalie’s sale to the Saudi prince.

“James?” Marco barks. “Report!”

Nothing but dead air.

Viktor’s smile widens as he watches my face. “Communication difficulties, Volkov? You seem…distracted.”

“Business calls,” I mutter, but my mind is racing.

“Ah yes, business.” Viktor sips his champagne thoughtfully. “The modern world is so dependent on technology, isn’t it? Communications, security systems, electronic transfers…all so vulnerable to the right kind of interference.”

Alarm bells are blaring in my head. Something is wrong. Viktor knows something. He knows .

Ava is brought onto the stage next. The room’s energy shifts again—these animals sense her fire and want to extinguish it.