Chapter Four – The Brothers
The light hit me like a slap. Warm, too bright, sharp at the edges. I blinked hard as I stepped onto the stage, legs wooden beneath the heavy pull of the gown. My heels echoed once, then were swallowed by the hush of velvet walls and watching eyes. I didn’t look at them. I couldn’t.
The crowd was faceless beyond the glow — shadows seated in tiers like an old theater, hushed and waiting. Some leaned forward. Others sipped from glasses that caught the light like garnets. All of them were watching me. Not at me — at what I was. What might I be worth? The gown clung to me like a second skin, too tight at the ribs, too open at the back. My skin itched beneath it. I felt a bead of sweat slide down my spine, slow and cold, and resisted the urge to wipe it away.
I stared just above the auctioneer’s head, the way you do when you’re about to cry and can’t afford to fall apart. The lights blurred the edges of my vision. My mouth was dry, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.
His voice rang out smooth as silk. “Lot Thirty-One. Human. Twenty. Untrained. Unsold.”
He smiled like it was a compliment. “Opening bid?”
Silence. For half a second, the floor didn’t feel stable. The quiet wasn’t soft. It was brutal. Loud in a way that echoed between my ears like a warning bell.
My skin prickled under the lights. My breath caught. What if no one bid? What if they saw me the same way they’d seen that girl — the one who’d screamed, sobbing, because not even monsters had wanted her? What if—
“Twenty thousand.”
The voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade. Low. Cold. Crisp. Like it didn’t need to be loud to be final. My gaze snapped toward the sound. I couldn’t see his face clearly; it was just a silhouette in the upper tier. One leg crossed, fingers steepled, head slightly tilted. He didn’t move when he spoke again.
“Thirty.”
A ripple passed through the room. The kind you feel rather than hear.
“Ah.” The auctioneer straightened, voice tight with interest. “House Ashbourne enters the bidding.”
Ashbourne, the name hit like a cold wind. A second voice followed — smooth, amused, too casual for the room.
“Fifty,” said the other brother, like it was a joke, like I was something he’d toss in the back of a closet when he got bored.
I heard someone suck in a breath. Not near me. Somewhere in the rows above.
“Eighty,” came the first voice again. Still calm. Still like a command.
“Eighty-five,” the other returned — but this time slower, like testing the water.
Then: “Enough,” the cold one said. Not a shout. Just the kind of finality no one argued with. The auctioneer didn’t push his luck. The gavel struck once, sharp and final.
“Lot Thirty-One, sold to House Ashbourne.”
The spotlight dimmed, but the silence stayed. No applause. No fanfare. Just a subtle shift in the room’s energy, as though everyone else had silently moved on — but the air around me hadn’t. I stood there, blinking into the shadows, numb from the neck down. My knees locked. My hands hung limp at my sides. The number on my wrist — Thirty-One — itched suddenly, like it had seared into my skin. A hand touched my elbow. I jumped. One of the handlers I hadn’t seen approach nodded toward the corridor offstage. Another waited just behind him, silent, blocking any chance of retreat. I didn’t look back. I walked.
Each step felt hollow, disconnected from the rest of me. My body was moving, but my thoughts lagged, like I hadn’t caught up to what had happened. Like, none of it was real yet. The hallway was colder. The music from the auction floor faded to a low hum, then vanished altogether. I didn’t realize how fast my heart was beating until the silence wrapped around me like a noose. Sold. The word echoed behind my ribs. I was property now—a possession. And yet, the fear that had been building for hours didn’t spike. It didn’t boil over. I paused because I was no longer waiting. The unknown had arrived. And it had a name.
They stood at the end of the hallway, just beyond the reach of the golden light—two figures, still as statues, watching me approach. The first, who had bid without emotion, was dressed in a dark suit that blurred into the shadows. His face was angular, elegant in a way that felt too precise, like it had been drawn by hand. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His eyes — gods, his eyes — they weren’t human. Not blue. Not gray. Steel. Cold and sharp and deadly. He didn’t blink. The other stood just behind him, posture looser, more casual. A single hand rested in the pocket of his coat. His other hand held a glass of something deep red — wine, maybe. Or not. He smirked when I looked at him. It wasn’t cruel. It was worse. It was familiar — like he already knew what I looked like, afraid. His features were softer, warmer — gold-flecked eyes, tousled hair, a mouth that might have been kind in another life. But there was something feral behind that ease. Something coiled. Predator wearing a charm like perfume. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to. They turned. And I followed.