Chapter 19 - Keira

It was dark in the back of the truck.

They must have dragged me out of the pack center, but I don’t remember it. I was unconscious for a while, and have no idea for how long.

I woke with chains biting into my wrists and ankles. Every bump in the road sent sharp jolts of pain through my body, and the stench of oil and dirt filled my nose. There was a canvas cover above me, and it was claustrophobic. It flapped in the wind off the highway, a racket I couldn’t handle.

My head throbbed where my attacker had hit me. I couldn’t focus on anything but the cold metal pressing into my skin, the constant rattle of chains around me.

When we pulled up at the mansion, I felt the blade that’s been lodged in me for all these years twist hard. I knew the building immediately.

I only got a glimpse of it before I had been wrestled out onto the gravel, a burlap sack pulled over my head and tied tight around my throat. I tried to fight at first—of course I did. But the men holding me were huge. Every time I struggled, they tightened the restraints, yanked me harder. The more I resisted, the more they seemed to enjoy it.

One of them leaned over me as I was escorted into the building, his breath hot and foul against my ear.

“Your disappearance will set an example,” he said, voice low and menacing. “Whoever your people are, they’ll learn not to meddle in things that don’t concern them.”

I couldn’t see it, but I felt his grin against my face, the kind of smile that made my stomach turn. I shuddered so hard I felt my hair rising at the roots. I was tugged inside, and darkness closed in around me.

Now, standing on the stage, I almost wish for the darkness.

I can’t see any more of the world around me than I did—the men bidding on me, the auctioneer grinning in the corner of my vision—the force of the lights over me blur everything out. But I can hear them. Their voices rise and fall, excited, eager. They’re discussing me like I’m not even a person, just another item for sale.

Ten thousand. Twenty thousand. Thirty thousand. Fifty thousand.

I can’t stop shaking. My knees threaten to give out beneath me, and I have to fight to stay upright. The bruise on my cheek throbs in time with my heartbeat.

Someone in the crowd roars with laughter as a tear rolls down my cheek.

I curse myself. I shouldn’t be seen as this weak. It’ll only make things worse for me later. I try to focus and think of something, anything that will get me out of this. Aren’t I a strategist? If there was anyone in the world that should be able to stay calm right now, especially given my experiences, it should be me.

But all I can hear are their voices, all I can feel are the lights burning into my skin, all I can see is the stage stretching out endlessly before me into the impenetrable dark of the seating ahead.

This can’t be happening, I think. It can’t be true. But it is. I’m on this stage, and I’m about to be sold to the highest bidder like I’m nothing more than property.

And nobody’s coming to save me. Just like last time.

Panic rises in my chest. I try to push it down. But this is different. This is a new kind of terror. I can’t fight. I can’t scheme. All I can do is stand here and wait for them to decide my fate.

All this time, I think, my life was preparing me to have to go through this again. It’s why I never stopped being scared. I’ve learned better than to believe in rescue. Hope is dangerous.

The auctioneer’s voice blurs into the background as the bidding escalates, but it’s all just noise to me. Numbers are tossed around casually, like I’m nothing more than a commodity. I try to block it out, but it’s impossible to ignore the cold truth that I am here, and I am alone. They’re going to sell me, and no one is coming to stop it.

Then, through the haze of voices, I hear something familiar. A voice, rough and urgent, cutting through the others. My heart skips a beat.

No. It can’t be.

It sounds like Ado.

He’s bidding, his voice rising higher and higher, almost frantic as he competes with the others. Ninety thousand. Ninety-five thousand. A hundred thousand dollars. But I can’t be sure. My mind is foggy, disoriented from the blow to my head, and I can’t tell if this is real or some cruel trick.

It could be someone else entirely. A cruel stranger who will lock me away forever and hurt me. Or someone from my past. Someone who used to hold me captive. A shadow from the days when I was trapped, alone, and helpless.

The past and present seem to blur together. I watch them fold into each other.

I can’t think straight. The bidding intensifies, and I hear that voice again, pushing the price higher. My head spins dread, hope, fear, confusion, anger, and desperation like a washing machine.

“Sold!” the auctioneer cries, crashing through my malaise. “To the gentleman in the back, for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”

I’ve been sold. I have been sold for money.

The roar of blood in my ears heightens. I still can’t see anyone in the crowd. The lights are too bright, blinding me to the faces before me.

Men groan with disappointment, some still laughing. I’m so exposed. Will I ever feel unexposed again? I’m clothed, but I feel so naked.

This is what it feels like to have your personhood stripped from you. I remember the feeling.

I expect them to lead me off stage, to deliver me to this mystery bidder, whoever they are. Fear curls its cold hands around my throat and squeezes.

But instead of leading me away, the auctioneer steps forward with a wide grin and gestures toward the audience. “And now, let’s welcome our winning bidder to the stage! Come on up and claim your prize, sir.”

There is a long pause. I hear footsteps echo in the room. Slow, deliberate. They grow louder as the man approaches, and I’m nauseous with terror. His shadow ascends the stairs to the stage.

I brace myself for the worst, every muscle in my body tensing as I wait for him to reach me.

Out of the blinding light, I see him.

Ado.

The relief crashes over me so hard I nearly collapse. It’s him. It’s really him. He’s here. He came for me.

I’m weeping openly now—I hope I can play it off as fear alone. They can’t know we know each other. They’d kill him and sell me all over again.

Ado's face remains expressionless, but I can feel his gaze on me. I want to say something, anything, but I can’t. Not here, not now. The room is watching. Their eyes, those hungry, greedy eyes, are on us.

The auctioneer pulls Ado aside for a moment to slickly confirm payment. My mind fuzzes to another place. I imagine my apartment. At least it was safe there.

Percy and Rafael must be nearby. They can extract me. I can go back to the pack center and sleep for a week. I can be alone, and I can heal, and I can go back to a world where all of this is a bad memory, and bad memories are scary, but they cannot hurt me, not really—

“Now, in order to ensure the legitimacy of sales,” the auctioneer says, “We must first make sure your mating to the bride is legitimate.”

I freeze where I stand. The words hang in the air.

My blood runs cold. The ritual. The blood-bond. It’s more than just a purchase. They need proof, a seal on their twisted transaction.

Ado doesn’t seem to move a millimeter, not blinking, not breathing.

This is too far. This is wrong.

But I can’t move, can’t speak. The reality of it crashes down on me, threatening to crush me. Ado stands before me, his eyes flickering with the same realization.

We’re trapped.

The auctioneer waves a hand, and one of the dark-clad men steps forward, holding a ceremonial dagger.

“For all distinguished guests, excluding verified customers, we perform the blood-bond to solidify the union. A symbolic gesture of ownership and devotion. A beautiful tradition.”

I want to scream. To run. But I can’t. If we refuse, we’re dead. Ado is dead.

Is this really worth it for my freedom?

I think about freedom. I think about how it felt to lose it.

I think I might throw up all over the auctioneer’s shiny black loafers.

Ado doesn’t hesitate. He gives a small nod, his jaw tight, and steps forward, holding out his hand.

People in the crowd murmur. Wondering whether I’ll be held down and forced to bleed before them. I swallow the lump in my throat and do the same, holding my arm out palm-up. My fingers tremble. I can’t feel my hand as I offer it to the man with the dagger.

He takes Ado’s hand first, drawing the blade across his palm. Blood wells up instantly. Ado doesn’t react. His eyes are locked on mine. I see the storm raging beneath his calm exterior.

Then it’s my turn.

The blade slices across my palm, slow and deep. I gasp, the sting of it jolting me back into my body. Blood trickles down my hand, warm and sticky.

The auctioneer takes our hands and presses them together, blood mixing, skin against skin. Ado’s grip is firm, steady, a lifeline in this sea of chaos. I cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.

The auctioneer begins to chant in a language I don’t recognize. The room seems to grow colder, darker, as the ritual takes hold.

I feel something shift, something deep inside me, as the bond begins to form; it’s as if a thread has been woven between us, invisible but unbreakable, pulling us closer together. Ado’s hand tightens around mine, and I can see the same fear in his eyes that I feel in my own. This isn’t just an act. This is real. The bond is real.

And it will never go away.

The chant ends, and the room erupts into applause. The deal is done. We’re bound. I’ve been sold, and now I belong to Ado, at least in the eyes of these monsters.

The auctioneer smiles, satisfied, and waves us off the stage.

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “May your union be long and prosperous.”

I can’t process what’s happening to me anymore as Ado pulls me off the stage, his arm around my waist, guiding me away from the prying eyes of the audience. The floodlights disappear behind the curtain as he tugs me from the hooting and clapping of the auction-goers.

The world spins. My vision lurches, and I realize I cannot stand up straight; I sway dangerously.

Ado leans down and sweeps me off my feet. A bridal lift. I almost want to laugh.

As he carries me through the darkened halls, further away from the prying eyes of the crowd, I press my face against his shoulder, feeling the familiar warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. I should feel safe in his arms, but all I can think about is the bond we’ve just forged, and what it means for both of us.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips pressed to the top of my head. “It’s okay, I have you. I have you. I have you.”