Page 46 of Devour (Blood and Roses #1)

“For my final words…” she says, smiling coldly, “be compliant. Be beautiful. Be unforgettable.”

Then she adds with a little bow,

“As we say in French… au revoir.”

As soon as we’re dismissed, I return to the dorm and tear off the nipple clamps. Relief floods me instantly as blood rushes back into the tender peaks. They were already sensitive before—now they throb painfully.

My dress rubs against them, and the friction is unbearable. I crawl under the covers and pull them up to my chin, then carefully slip out of the dress beneath the sheets. I shut my eyes, intending to take a short nap, but Lana’s voice makes them flutter open.

“There you are the girls are having a little get-together in the common area. Want to join?”

“Maybe later, I want to nap a bit.”

“Okay I will leave you it then.”

That nap turns into deep sleep. I don’t wake up again until Lucia shakes me for dinner. I eat little, then crawl right back into bed. The next morning, I woke up to a nervous wreck. It’s the auction day.

I get ready alongside the other girls. We’re taken to a dressing room, then herded into makeup stations. The artists paint our faces with practiced hands, and when I finally look at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the girl staring back.

My eyes have grown sunken over the week, but the makeup hides everything. My lips are painted the color of ripe cherries. I might’ve complimented the makeup artist… if I didn’t know they were turning us into showpieces for the highest bidder.

We changed into the outfit Mistress Tilly gave us as a parting gift. I thought it looked cheap in the bag—but on my body, it’s worse. It’s not a dress. It’s a strip of transparent fabric barely sewn together.

The neckline plunges so low my breasts feel like they’ll spill out with one wrong breath, and the thin band of cloth around my hips barely counts as a skirt. My stomach is bare. My back is bare. Even the sides of my thighs are exposed.

There’s nothing dignified about it—just a silent reminder that we’re meant to be unwrapped, displayed, and sold. I feel more naked in it than I ever did without clothes.

No one speaks as we’re lined up and led down a long corridor. The walls are dark stone, different from the sterile white halls we’ve seen all week. Flickering sconces line the walls, casting eerie shadows across our faces. Each step echoes like a drumbeat in my chest.

We’re brought into a holding room. It’s silent, save for the occasional shift of movement or the sound of shallow, nervous breathing. At the far end hangs a thick, velvet curtain. Beyond it lies the stage. The auction stage.

My heart pounds so violently it drowns out every other sound. This can’t be happening. I’ve barely come to terms with being kidnapped, barely processed that I was sold—now I’m about to be auctioned to the highest bidder like I’m nothing more than property.

The room begins to spin. Nausea surges up my throat. I bend forward, gagging, about to throw up when someone yanks me from the line—roughly, without care.

“Get yourself together,” one of the Mistresses snaps, voice sharp and cold.

I nod weakly, unable to speak, too focused on keeping my stomach from emptying onto the floor. She waits until I steady myself, then silently shoves me to the back of the line. Then I hear the voice. Muffled, but clear enough through the curtain.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen—welcome! Welcome to the Crimson Dawn Virgin Auction!”

The crowd erupts in applause. Loud. Excited. Hungry. I’m going to be sick again.

“Tonight, we’ll be presenting twenty-five untouched beauties for your bidding pleasure.

Now, I know we’ve all familiarized ourselves with the rules, but let me remind you—before final payment, you may sample your goods.

But under no circumstances are you allowed to penetrate. Damaged goods are non-refundable.”

A few men laugh at that. Deep, low, knowing sounds that twist my stomach tighter.

“Now that we’re clear, let the auction begin.”

The women were pulled through the curtain one by one as they were announced—and none of them came back. Soon, I’m the only one left in the room. Then I hear the deep, booming voice from beyond the curtain announce me:

“Now this next one… this is the one I’ve been eager to bring out. She’s a bit shy, but don’t let that fool you. You know what they say about the quiet ones—they’re always the wildest.”

“She is into kinky play,” he adds with a chuckle.

That’s a lie, I think bitterly. He’s just saying that to rile up the crowd. And it’s working. One of the Mistresses walks toward me, a nipple clamp glinting in her hand. I know exactly what she’s about to do.

I shake my head and take a step back—only to crash into a hard chest. A guard. He grabs me before I can escape, holding me firmly in place as the Mistress fastens the leather collar around my neck.

She pulls down the top of my flimsy dress, baring my breasts. Shame floods my face, burning up to my chin. But that shame quickly morphs into pain as she clamps each nipple. I hiss through clenched teeth.

“Introducing Crimson Virgin Number 25!”

I yank the dress back up, hands trembling, my legs frozen in place. I know I’m the one he’s announcing—there’s no one else left—but my body refuses to move. The guard shoves me forward. I stumble through the curtain… into my literal nightmare.

The announcer stands on a round, elevated stage under blinding lights. The rest of the room is lost in shadow. I can’t see the crowd—only feel the heat of their anticipation pressing down on me like a storm cloud.

The guard keeps pushing me forward until I’m standing in the center of the spotlight. I try to hold myself together, but my entire body is shaking. The announcer grips my arm roughly.

“Feisty and beautiful, isn’t she?” he says, voice thick with amusement.

Then he spins me around for the crowd to see, forcing a cry from my throat as the sudden movement tugs sharply at the clamps. The pain burns through my chest, and humiliation follows closely behind it.

“Shall we start the bidding at ten million?”

I must have gasped because he glances at me with a knowing smirk, as if feeding off my shock. A few lights blink to life in the audience—silent signals that the bids have begun. Over the next few minutes, the numbers climb.

“Do I hear twenty million for the milky goddess?” the announcer calls, his voice soaked in sleaze.

The crowd hums with interest, the soft flickers of blinking lights responding like the clicks of a predator’s jaw. My face burns.

I tremble. I’ve never felt this kind of exposure before—this complete stripping away of identity. It’s barbaric. Inhuman. I don’t know what kind of rich, sick bastard would spend millions on something like this.

“Do I hear thirty million? Thirty?”

The bidding climbs until it finally stalls at fifty million dollars.

“Fifty million! Going once… going twice… SOLD!”

He shoves me toward a door, and a guard grabs my arm, escorting me away like merchandise just paid for. Anger churns in my chest, tangled with disgust and fear.

I don’t know what waits for me on the other side of that hallway. What kind of sadist spent fifty million dollars for the privilege of owning me. But whoever he is—he’s not going to break me. Finn and the bastard who sold me… I hope they choke on their blood. And my buyer? Let him try to touch me.