Page 40 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

I keep my face still, my stomach turning.

If I don’t find a way to escape before the wedding next week—or if Jaxon doesn’t come looking for me before then—I know I’ll vanish. He’ll never find me.

Lunch on the flight was some dainty salad I ignored. Hours later, a hot dinner was served—beef in some rich-smelling sauce that made my stomach cramp with hunger—but I refused again. The thought of eating at his table made my throat close.

By the time we land, it’s well into the night. London time puts it close to midnight, the city wrapped in a damp, chilly darkness. The car waiting for us is sleek and silent, its tinted windows shutting me off from everything beyond the glass.

Minutes later, we roll to a stop at what looks like a boutique. From the street, it’s all dark windows and polished brass handles—the kind of place where women shop for something special. But I don’t get anywhere near the front.

The muscle opens my door and steers me down a narrow alley to the rear of the building.

An unmarked service door waits between two loading docks, propped open by a woman who looks like she was carved from old stone—sharp nose, thin lips, and a permanent frown.

She’s holding the door like she’s been expecting us.

Inside it smells of fabric and steam, like freshly pressed dresses. There’s no chatter of customers here. No music. Just the sound of my own pulse thudding in my ears as they lead me deeper inside.

The lord takes a seat and behind him, the wall of muscle shifts. Big. Mean. Silent.

There’s a platform in the center of the room, surrounded by racks of white. Wedding dresses. So many they look like ghosts lining the walls.

A woman enters—haughty, narrow-faced, beady eyes that match his. She doesn’t smile.

“Strip,” he says, as if it’s nothing.

My arms fold over my chest. “No.”

The woman’s tone is deceptively gentle. “Just remove your clothes, dear. Undergarments remain on.”

I start to shake.

The muscle clears his throat, and it’s not a polite sound—it’s a warning.

“I’ll do it for you if you refuse to comply.”

I stare at him, just long enough to know he means it. Then I turn my back. My shirt comes off. My jeans follow. I look only at my own reflection in the mirror, closing myself off to everything else.

“Mmm,” the lord hums, eyes crawling over me. “Very lovely.”

“She is,” the muscle agrees, gaze openly raking my body.

I close my eyes. I am anywhere else. Anywhere but here.

The woman steps in, tape measure snapping between her fingers.

She works quickly, efficiently—like I’m nothing but fabric to her.

It’s only when she calls out a number that I notice another girl in the room.

Young. My age, maybe younger. She slips into the racks, silent, returns with several gowns draped over her arms.

The woman sifts through them, plucks one. “Try this one.”

I glance at the muscle in the mirror, then take the dress and step into it. The fabric is heavy, suffocating.

“Yes. This one,” the woman says, her voice clipped.

The lord stands like the decision is final. “Have it ready by tomorrow.”

My stomach drops. “Tomorrow?” I spin to face him.

He takes slow, deliberate steps toward me. “Yes. Tomorrow. No need to draw things out. I’m eager for an heir.” His gaze drags down my body. “I’m eager to put an heir in you… as well.”

The back of his finger runs down my breast. Instinct takes over—I smack it away.

His smile disappears. His hand shoots down, grabbing the hem of the dress and yanking me toward him. “We’ll have none of that once you are my wife. You will learn that lesson quickly.” He releases me, smooths his jacket like nothing happened. “Best not make the punishment worse on yourself.”

He heads for the door, the muscle following with a smirk that makes my skin crawl.

“I will take you every way I want you tomorrow night, my bride,” the lord says without looking back. “It will hurt less if you behave.”

They’re gone, but the air feels no lighter.

The woman and the young girl remain. The muscle stands at the door, watching me with a stare that feels like hands on my skin. I can see it in his eyes—he’s already imagining things he’d do to me if the lord allowed it. And I’m betting, eventually, he will.

“Turn around. We’ll pin the adjustments.” The woman’s voice is cold. Detached. As if she doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—that I’m here against my will.

I turn. Stand still as she works.

The first pin bites my side and the tears come, hot and silent, falling down my face as she fits me for the dress I’ll be married in.

And possibly destroyed in.