10. Chapter 10

Like a deer caught in a pair of headlights, I gaze unfocused at the crowd beneath me.

From my slightly elevated position on stage, I can see the outlines of dozens and dozens of sharply dressed men and women filling the room.

The spotlight pointed directly at me would blind an average person, but I've spent most of my life on a stage.

Granted, I'm usually wearing a lot more clothing.

Even so, after my glassy eyes give a cursory sweep of the faces closest to the platform, my gaze is inexplicably drawn to the back of the room.

In an area made dim by shadows, my eyes clash suddenly with a pair of bright blues that seem to see more than the rest.

A piercing blue that sees past the stone hanging around my neck like an anchor to the woman beneath.

I feel those eyes like a zap of electricity, reanimating a spark of hope I thought was lost for good.

I know those eyes.

Unlike all the other men I've been with in the past when those eyes had stared into mine during sex, I'd felt something other than the pleasant buzz of an impending orgasm.

Those eyes had seemed to peer beneath my fake bravado and sarcastic mouth.

The feeling had scared me, so I'd pushed him from my mind just like the others.

I was terrified of letting another man get close to me.

I was still living in the nightmare created by the last one.

As I stand on stage, staring into Deacon's eyes, I know what he sees looking back at him.

Nothing.

I'm so numb inside now.

Over the past three weeks, I've screamed or cried out any lingering emotion I may have had.

I don't have anything left in me to give.

Not to Deacon, not to Dante, not to anyone.

Don't get me wrong, I still feel the pain Dante inflicts on me, but during those moments, I go somewhere else.

Somewhere far from here, where there are no cuts or burns or bruises.

A place free of vile Italian words spoken through lips made only to wound.

To bite and tear at the parts of flesh no one else is allowed to see.

Parts that have been claimed by a demon.

Claimed and reclaimed, over and over.

Ever conscious of the shadow at my back, I know he's watching from behind the stage.

If I give any one man in the crowd more attention than the rest, he'll notice.

He sees everything.

So, as much as every fiber of my being is screaming to call out for Deacon's help, I have no choice but to break eye contact and move on.

Turning left and right, I go through the motions of being nothing more than a prop for the sale of Dante's latest acquisition—The Oppenheimer Blue diamond.

I overheard Dante and the auctioneer talking about the necklace.

I don't know exactly how he came by the gem, but when it was placed on my neck, I was reminded of the conversation between Dante and the two other Italians in the hallway outside my room shortly after I was taken.

I can't help but wonder if this is the diamond they were referring to.

If so, it belonged to Ilya Kapranov, and he wants it back.

Did Dante steal it? The thought of that meeting reminds me of another that took place only moments ago: two more men, one a stranger but the other very well known.

I'd recognized him, even from the small glimpse I'd gotten before Dante had locked me in the room next door.

It was Senator Martin Hawkins.

Try as I might, I wasn't able to hear much through the closed door between the office and the room I'd been shut up in.

I was pretty sure I'd heard the name Sykes, and I know they were talking about money, but that wasn't much to go on.

For as long as I've known Dante, he's had money.

A seemingly endless amount of money.

Since I've been taken, things feel … different.

It's almost as though I can see the cracks beginning to show in the sophisticated and debonair picture he's painted himself into.

All I need is for one of those cracks to get large enough for my voice to be heard through it.

Then maybe I'll have the opening I need to get as far away from here as possible.

Glancing back over towards the shadowed corner where Deacon was just standing, my stomach bottoms out when I see he's no longer there.

Trying to keep my facial expression as blank as possible, my eyes dart from one end of the room to the other, frantically searching for him.

Would he just leave me here? I have to believe that, even if he didn't feel anything more for me than lust, he wouldn't want me in this situation.

I have to believe that he'd try to do … something .

A sudden movement at the base of the stage directly in front of me catches my attention.

Looking down, I see that Deacon is indeed still here and has shoved his way to the front of the leering men.

In fact, he looks like he's planning to jump on stage at any second.

Terrified of what Dante will do, I meet Deacon's ice-blue gaze again and give an almost imperceptible shake of my head.

I want help, but I don't know how many of these people are allied with Dante, and I don't want Deacon getting hurt or, worse, killed trying to save me.

As I stare into Deacon's eyes, his stare conveys hours of words that can't be spoken here.

He's not gonna leave me to fend for myself.

If his posture and the righteous fury on his face are any indication, he'll do whatever he has to do to take me out of here.

Or at least I pray that's what the unspoken exchange is trying to tell me.

Looking away, I stare straight ahead, seemingly uninterested in the man who's literally pulsing with aggression below, but I give a slight nod of my head, letting him know that I understand.

Since my first escape from Dante, I've done my best to be my own savior.

To never count on anyone to rescue me.

This time, though, I know I need help, and that help may very well come in the form of a smartass that sells stolen goods and sports a man bun.

As I listen to the auctioneer list the details of the diamond, I stare blankly at the wall on the opposite side of the room.

As the bidding begins, I hear millions of dollars worth of bids thrown out like candy to children on Halloween.

Thirty million, forty million, forty-five million.

That amount of money clearly means nothing to these people.

It's just chocolate bars and lollipops.

A deep baritone suddenly seems to rise above the others, ringing clear as a bell, even in the loud and crowded room.

"Eighty million dollars."

It's only by sheer force of will that I keep my eyes from flying to the source of that voice.

Even so, I can't stop my eyes from widening at the ridiculous amount.

It's well above the market value of the diamond.

Nearly double, in fact.

I don't know what Deacon is thinking.

Does he even have that kind of money? As I listen to the rest of the room fall silent, I can physically feel eyes burning into my flesh—two sets in particular.

One loathed, the other longed for.

As I wait to hear someone speak up with a higher bid, all the air going in and out of my body seems lodged in my throat.

I'm not sure if I'm hoping for it or dreading it.

I pray this is part of Deacon's plan, whatever that may be, to get me the hell out of here.

The auctioneer calls, "We have a new high bidder! Eighty million dollars! Do I hear ninety?"

Holding his gavel out to the crowd, as though he works for Christy's, he pretends he doesn't know that every person in here is a criminal with either a notorious or vile nature.

I wait to hear the next words, knowing they'll be sealing my fate, one way or another.

My eyes finally flick back down to Deacon.

Blue and brown gazes collide, and for whatever reason; I can't look away.

A long, heavy look passes between us, desperation pulsing from both sides, though for different reasons.

"Eighty million, going once … going twice … sold!"

the man calls out loudly.

The bang of the gavel has me jumping involuntarily.

Eyes still locked with Deacons, I watch as his jaw tightens to what I imagine is a painful degree.

He looks furious.

I'm not sure if it's with me or the situation.

But I'll take Deacon's fury over Dante's torment any day.

Finally tearing my gaze from his, I turn on unsteady legs and make my way back down the catwalk towards the curtain at the back of the stage, willing Deacon not to fulfill the promise in his eyes and jump on stage to follow me.

Just as I reach the curtain, I glance to my left to find Dante standing off to the side, partially hidden behind the curtain and the auctioneer's podium.

With his gaze intent on my face, I do my best to school my features and present an outwardly neutral expression.

Even so, I don't miss the displeasure and suspicion I see staring back at me.

Pretending as though I don't see it, I step behind the main curtain to the backstage area that's been set up.

There I stop, waiting for the devil to come retrieve me.

It doesn't take long.

"Well, I see I chose a good display for my necklace.

That amount was definitely unexpected,"

he says in his smooth Italian accent.

I'm not at all surprised to hear him refer to me as inanimate property.

It isn't the first time.

I spent years being treated like a possession, used and abused.

I'm used to it.

He makes a twirling motion with his index finger, and he indicates that I should spin around.

Though the last thing I want to do is give him my back, I do as I'm told, knowing there will be dire repercussions if I disobey.

Coming up behind me, close enough for me to feel his body heat against my back, he lets his fingers trail over the skin of my neck.

It's only years of practice that keeps me from recoiling.

Unclipping the chain at the base of my neck, he removes the heavy stone.

As I turn back around, I see another man standing nearby, holding a velvet box.

He steps forward, opening the box to allow Dante to place the necklace inside.

He must work for Mr.

Kingsley or the auctioneer.

Taking my wrist in a tight hold, Dante pulls me along behind him as he and the other man walk down a hallway and open a door that leads into what appears to be an office.

Entering behind the two men, their backs obscure the complete view of the room until we're well inside, and the door is shut firmly behind us.

Only once Dante and the other man move do I see two men waiting in the room already.

Mr.

Kingsley sits behind a massive oak desk.

Sitting in a chair opposite him is Deacon.

At our entrance, the two men look over.

Blue eyes meet mine again before looking down to where Dante grips my wrist.

I watch Deacon's gaze narrow to slits before he stands, and I have a moment of panic, wondering if all hell is about to break loose.

Just as I brace myself to duck for cover, Mr.

Kingsley stands as well, seemingly unaware of the mounting tension in every muscle of Deacon's body.

The man who entered with us moves over to hand the necklace off to his boss.

Opening the velvet case, Mr.

Kingsley lets out a low whistle of appreciation.

Passing the open case over to Deacon, he hands him a jeweler's loop, standing watch while Deacon inspects the gem. Closing the case with a snap, he hands it back to Mr. Kingsley with a nod.

Smiling hugely, he hands Deacon a small slip of paper and says, "Mr.

Taylor, if you'll initiate the transfer of the funds to the account number listed there, minus my 10%, of course, the transaction will be complete."

Instead of pulling out his phone, Deacon pauses momentarily before meeting Dante's eyes for the first time since we entered the room.

Watching the silent exchange between the two men is terrifying.

The animosity coming from Deacon is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Alternately, Dante's usual air of sophisticated danger has me on edge.

Between the two of them, the air in the room feels like molasses in my lungs.

Eyes darting back and forth between them, I stand awkwardly in the ridiculously revealing lingerie.

I'm not shy by any means but I've never been entirely comfortable with my body.

Having it on nearly full display is just one more blow to my already battered psyche.

I can only pray that Deacon wasn't able to see the fresh cuts on my back beneath the bright lights of the stage.

I don't think he did because, if he had, I have a sneaking suspicion that Dante would be dead already.

I'm honestly not used to this intense side of Deacon.

The only time he's come remotely close to being this serious was when he was inside me.

I give myself an inward shake because, after everything I've been through these last few weeks, I can't think about anything even remotely sexual right now.

I also can't afford to lower my guard for even a second.

As Deacon maintains eye contact with Dante, I wonder if he can see the evil lurking within.

Maybe it's because of that evil that he now won't look anywhere else.

Not at Mr.

Kingsley, not at the unnamed lackey, not even at me.

Just when I'm sure I'm going to suffocate under the weight of the tense silence, he finally speaks.

"How much for the girl?"

he asks.

He still won't look at me, but I don't need him to, to know that the girl in question is me.

He's taking the direct approach.

I didn't expect this.

I would've tried to warn him that it wouldn't work if I had.

There's no way Dante will let me go.

Not for any price.

Lips turning up in a sinister grin, Dante says, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr.

Taylor, but mia Sirena is not for sale."

Funny, he doesn't sound sorry.

Not the least bit deterred, Deacon says, "Name your price."

Dante gives an unexpected tug on the wrist, still held in his grasp.

I'm not prepared for the move, and I stumble towards him on the heels he forced me to wear tonight.

Drawing me back against him, he brings his other hand up, wrapping it around my throat.

The hold isn't tight, but it's threatening all the same, and his message is crystal clear.

Staring at Deacon, I see the hands at his sides ball into fists, but he and Dante are too busy mean-mugging each other for Dante to notice.

Or at least, that's my sincere hope.

Chuckling under his breath, Dante says, "Ah, but you see, she's my most prized possession.

Just look at her.

I cannot blame you, Mr.

Taylor, but the only way I will part with her is in death."

My bottom lip begins to tremble, and I blink back the tears threatening to spill over.

I watch as a blank mask comes down over Deacon's features and I suddenly realize I don't know this person.

In fact, he scares me nearly as much as Dante.

He's … cold.

All hints of the playfully sarcastic man I met at the bar all those weeks ago, is gone.

He's gonna leave me here, I know it.

Nodding slowly, he takes his phone from the inside pocket of his tux, punching in the numbers for what I can only assume is one of Dante's offshore bank accounts.

Hearing a ping sound from behind me, Dante finally releases my neck in favor of pulling out his own phone.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Taylor,"

he says.

Mr.

Kingsley comes around his desk, shaking hands with both men.

I stand between them, little more than a piece of furniture now.

It's as if I don't exist.

Trying my best not to hyperventilate, I remind myself that I'm no worse off than I was before the auction.

I'm still in the same position.

The internal pep talk doesn't work, though.

How is it possible to feel so bereft after only such a tiny sliver of hope to begin with? Standing there, everything within me begins the process of shutting down again, trying to distance myself from the situation, from all the men in the room, from the world.

"Come, Sirena,"

Dante says.

Not a request but a command, like a dog.

Dutifully, I turn and follow behind him without a backward glance.

I can't look back.

If I do, I'll fall apart.

My future lies bleak and painful in front of me.

Internally, I'm screaming.

But on the outside, I'm numb again.