Page 22 of Shadow Waltz
“One fifty,” the woman responded without hesitation.
The bidding climbed higher, each number another weight added to the certainty that I was going to end up in the handsof someone who would make my previous owners look like saints. The woman in silk had the look of someone who enjoyed breaking beautiful things, while Sokolov's reputation suggested creative approaches to violence that made waterboarding look like a spa treatment.
But then another voice cut through the crowd, smooth and controlled and carrying an authority that made everyone else's money seem like pocket change: “Five hundred thousand.”
The entire theater fell silent. Even the auctioneer paused, his professional composure cracking just enough to show his surprise. Conversations died mid-sentence, champagne glasses froze halfway to lips, and the very air seemed to thicken with shock.
I searched the crowd for the source of the voice, but I already knew where it had come from. The private box above the main floor, where The Prince sat with the patience of someone who'd never doubted the outcome of any negotiation. He hadn't moved, hadn't even leaned forward, but his presence filled the theater like smoke from a funeral pyre.
The woman in silk looked up toward the private boxes, her body language suggesting she knew exactly who had just outbid her. Her face went pale beneath expertly applied makeup, and I saw something that might have been fear flicker in her eyes before she mastered her expression.
“Do I hear five-fifty?” the auctioneer called, but his voice lacked its previous enthusiasm. The silence stretched on like a held breath, heavy with the understanding that some battles weren't worth fighting.
Sokolov's paddle twitched, but he didn't raise it. Smart man. Even oligarchs knew better than to challenge The Prince directly, especially on his own territory.
“Sold!” The gavel crashed down like a judge's sentence, and just like that, I belonged to the most dangerous man in the city.
A hush fell over the room, thick as velvet, as the gavel struck wood and my fate was sealed. For a heartbeat, nothing moved—no one so much as breathed. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the guards advanced on me in perfect unison, boots echoing off marble like a death march. I could feel their anticipation, the satisfaction curling at the corners of their mouths. I was supposed to go quietly. A good investment didn’t bruise easily.
But I wasn’t anyone’s investment yet, not really. Not until I was out of this building. And I’d promised myself I’d fight until my body wouldn’t let me anymore.
My muscles coiled, years of survival instinct screaming at me tomove. The first guard reached for my arm, and I ducked, pivoting so fast my borrowed suit jacket split at the seam. The next instant, I slammed my elbow into his ribs. He grunted, surprised, and I seized the advantage—twisting free, sweeping his legs out from under him. He crashed to the floor, his tranq gun skittering away.
Someone in the audience let out a delighted gasp. Another started to clap, but the sound died in the oppressive, expectant hush. The eyes of the wealthy and the wicked watched me with predatory fascination, a room full of apex predators relishing the spectacle. To them, it was a show—one of their newest acquisitions trying to prove his spirit hadn’t been entirely broken.
Three more guards converged, forming a wall of muscle and black uniforms. I darted to the left, then the right, feinting for the edge of the stage. A baton flashed toward my head. I ducked, grabbed the guard’s wrist, and twisted with every ounce of desperation I had left. He cried out as bone popped, dropping the baton; I kicked it into the crowd. Somewhere, a champagne glass shattered.
For a fleeting second, the noise of the world sharpened. The click of heels on marble. The thrum of blood in my ears. Above me, in the private gallery, I felt rather than saw the Prince’s gaze—a presence colder than the Arctic and just as unforgiving. He watched from his perch, glass in hand, half in shadow, his expression unreadable.
I turned, searching for a path—any gap, any misstep to exploit. But the next guard was ready. He caught my arm in a vice grip, yanking me back toward center stage. Another grabbed my shoulder. I twisted, slammed my head back into his nose—warm blood splattered the pristine white collar of his shirt.
The crowd drew in a collective breath, a susurrus of hungry anticipation, like wolves scenting blood. They weren’t afraid; they wereentertained. For them, this wasn’t about me winning or losing—it was about how long I could make it interesting.
I roared—wordless, furious, the sound torn from somewhere deep and ancient. I wrenched myself free, spinning, landing a kick to the inside of the first guard’s knee. He buckled, swearing. The others hesitated just long enough for me to snatch a fallen taser. Electricity arced in my hand, the sharp tang of ozone slicing through the perfume-heavy air.
A woman in the front row leaned forward, eyes wide, wine glass forgotten in her hand. Her lips curled in a slow, cruel smile. “Oh, let him go another round!” someone called from behind her, laughter rippling around the room. For these people, pain was a pastime. Defiance was dessert.
But they’d brought too many guards for even my most reckless plan. Six closed in, a coordinated wall. I managed to land one more blow, heel cracking against a jaw. Two more hands grabbed me, pinning my arms behind my back. The taser clattered away.
I fought like a demon—kicking, clawing, teeth bared, every muscle screaming in protest. One of them got his arm around mythroat. Another punched me in the gut, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Stars burst behind my eyes, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. This was the last thing I had left: the choice to fight, even if I lost.
“Enough.” The word drifted down from above, chilling the air. The Prince hadn’t moved from his private gallery, but the whole room froze at his command. His voice was smooth, decadent, impossible to disobey.
The guards didn’t pause. They redoubled their efforts. Rough hands twisted my arms, forcing me down, grinding my knees into the polished wood. I tasted blood—metallic and real, proof that I hadn’t gone quietly. They pinned my shoulders, shoving my face against the cold stage floor.
“Don’t damage the merchandise,” one guard muttered, voice tight with effort.
But the Prince’s voice cut through the murmurs—cold and precise as a scalpel. “I said, enough. If he will not submit, remind him that pain is the language we speak here.”
Something cracked across my ribs—a baton, precise and practiced, meant to bruise but not break. The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I tried to pull away, but the next blow came faster, this one a vicious snap to my thigh. I bit down on my tongue, refusing to scream. More hands pinned me. One twisted my fingers until I thought they’d snap.
The Prince watched, impassive. The audience murmured, some shifting in their seats, others watching with sick fascination. No one moved to help. Why would they? This was all part of the dance—a spectacle to be savored, a lesson for the others.
I felt my body start to shut down, each breath shallow and ragged. A voice somewhere in the crowd murmured, “He’s beautiful when he bleeds.” Another said, “You’ll get used to it. They all do, eventually.”
At last, the blows stopped. I was left gasping, sweat and blood mingling on the marble, every muscle burning. The guards yanked me to my feet, wrists already swelling beneath the restraints.
The Prince raised his glass in a silent salute—a toast to my defeat. I met his eyes, just for a second. If he wanted fear, he’d get rage instead. If he wanted obedience, he’d get the knowledge that I’d make him regret every scar.