Chapter 1 The Devil of Auction Night

# Chapter 1: The Devil of Auction Night

Rain pounded against the glass dome above the auction hall, each drop sounding like a death knell to my ears. I stood on the wooden platform, shivering not from cold but from the humiliation of being displayed like merchandise. My father's debts had come due, and in this underground world of high society vultures, debts were paid in many currencies—including flesh and blood.

"Next item," the auctioneer announced, his voice echoing through the hall. "Lot number thirteen. Miss Valentina Emerson, daughter of the late Professor Emerson. Starting bid: fifty thousand."

I clenched my jaw as he described me like a prized mare—twenty-two years old, educated at prestigious institutions, fluent in four languages, trained in classical arts. All the qualities that made a perfect ornament for these wealthy men. My father had gambled away our fortune and my future with it.

The bidding began, men in tailored suits and women in evening gowns raising numbered paddles with casual flicks of their wrists. I refused to look at their faces, instead focusing on a crack in the marble floor.

"One hundred thousand."

"One hundred fifty."

"Two hundred thousand."

The numbers climbed, and with each increase, my heart sank deeper. I was property now, to be bought and sold like the antiques my father once collected.

Then came a voice from the back of the hall, deep and commanding: "Five hundred thousand."

The room fell silent. Even the auctioneer seemed momentarily stunned.

"Five hundred thousand from the gentleman in the back. Going once..."

I looked up then, unable to resist the urge to see who had placed such an exorbitant bid. He stood in the shadows near the entrance, tall and imposing in a black suit that seemed to absorb what little light reached him. I could make out only the sharp line of his jaw and the glint of something metallic in his hand.

"Going twice..."

No one challenged his bid. These vultures had their limits, it seemed.

"Sold! To Mr. Damien Blackwood."

As the gavel struck, thunder crashed outside, and for a moment, the lights flickered. In that brief darkness, I saw my future disappearing before my eyes.

Two security guards escorted me off the platform and toward the back of the hall where my new "owner" waited. As I approached, Damien Blackwood stepped into the light, and I felt my breath catch. He was younger than I expected, perhaps early thirties, with features that seemed carved from marble—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes so dark they appeared almost black. His hair, equally dark, was swept back from his forehead, revealing a thin scar that ran along his temple.

"Miss Emerson," he said, his voice cultured and smooth. "A pleasure."

I said nothing, my pride the only possession I had left.

He smiled at my silence, seemingly amused. "Not in a talking mood? That's quite all right. We'll have plenty of time for conversation later."

The auctioneer approached, paperwork in hand. "Mr. Blackwood, if you'll just sign here—"

"Of course." Damien reached into his pocket and pulled out what I initially thought was a coin. It was only when he placed it on the document that I realized it was glowing, emitting a soft golden light that illuminated his face from below, casting strange shadows across his features.

The coin began to smoke, burning through the paper, leaving his signature seared into the document. The auctioneer flinched but said nothing, clearly accustomed to the eccentricities of the wealthy.

"The payment will be transferred as usual," Damien said, pocketing the still-glowing coin. "Now, if you'll excuse us."

He placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit. His touch, even through the fabric of my dress, burned like ice.

Outside, the rain had intensified, sheets of water cascading from the night sky. A sleek black car waited at the curb, its engine purring softly. The driver, a stern-faced man with a scar across his throat, opened the door without a word.

"After you," Damien gestured.

I hesitated, rain soaking through my thin auction gown. "Where are you taking me?"

He smiled, a predator's smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Home, of course."

I had no choice but to enter the car, the leather interior cold against my damp skin. Damien slid in beside me, the door closing with a soft thud that seemed to seal my fate.

As we drove through the storm-lashed city, neither of us spoke. I stared out the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass, trying to ignore the man beside me who had just purchased me like a rare artifact.

Finally, we arrived at a towering mansion on the outskirts of the city, its gothic architecture looming against the storm-darkened sky. The driver opened my door, and I stepped out, rain immediately drenching me once more.

Damien led me inside, through a cavernous entrance hall and up a grand staircase. The house was eerily quiet, our footsteps echoing on the marble floors. He stopped before an ornate door, producing an antique key.

"Your quarters," he said, unlocking the door to reveal a luxurious bedroom. "Get changed. You'll find suitable attire in the wardrobe. Then join me in the study down the hall. We have matters to discuss."

He turned to leave but paused. "One more thing, Miss Emerson. Every night, you and I will play a game."

"A game?" I finally found my voice, though it came out as barely more than a whisper.

"Yes. A simple wager. You lose..." His eyes traveled over me with deliberate slowness. "You lose an article of clothing. Think of it as installment payments on your father's debt."

Anger flared within me, hot and sudden. "And if I win?"

His laugh was soft and dangerous. "You won't."

With that, he left, the door remaining unlocked—a mockery of freedom. I stood there, dripping rainwater onto the expensive carpet, seething with rage and humiliation.

The wardrobe contained dozens of garments, all in my size. I selected a simple black dress, a pair of long gloves, and a shawl—layers I could afford to lose. As I changed, I caught sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman who stared back at me was pale but determined. If Damien Blackwood wanted to play games, I would play—and I would make him regret ever bidding on Lot Number Thirteen.

I made my way to the study, where I found him seated at a card table, a deck of cards fanned out before him. A crystal decanter of amber liquid and two glasses stood nearby.

"Ah, Miss Emerson. Right on time." He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Please, sit."

I sat, spine rigid, hands folded in my lap. "What are we playing?"

"Blackjack. Simple enough, even for a beginner." He shuffled the cards with expert precision. "Dealer versus player. Closest to twenty-one wins."

I nodded, watching his hands. My father had been a gambling man; I knew the games well enough, though Damien didn't need to know that.

He dealt the cards, and our first game began. I deliberately played poorly, allowing him to win easily. With a triumphant smile, he gestured to my shawl. "If you please."

I removed it slowly, draping it over the back of my chair. The second game proceeded similarly, with me losing my gloves.

By the third game, Damien's eyes had darkened with anticipation. I lost again, as intended, and reached for the zipper of my dress.

"The dress stays," he said, his voice husky. "For now. Your undergarments first."

"That wasn't the agreement," I challenged.

His smile was razor-sharp. "I make the rules here, Miss Emerson. The dress stays on until I say otherwise."

Swallowing my pride, I unbuttoned the top of my dress just enough to expose my shoulders and slip off the thin silk chemise I wore underneath. As I pulled it over my head, the dress shifted, revealing a glimpse of my back.

Damien's sharp intake of breath told me he'd seen it—the intricate blood-red tattoo that covered my left shoulder blade and part of my spine. My father's final gift to me, inked the night before he died.

"Turn around," he commanded, all pretense of playfulness gone.

I hesitated, then slowly turned, allowing him to see the full design: a complex series of symbols and lines that resembled a map.

His fingers reached out, tracing the pattern on my skin. The touch sent a jolt through me, not entirely unpleasant. "Where did you get this?"

"It's just a tattoo," I lied.

"This is no ordinary tattoo." His fingers continued their exploration, sending shivers down my spine. "This is—"

In that moment, instinct took over. The hairpin securing my updo was in my hand before I could think, stabbing toward his exposed throat. But he was faster, catching my wrist in a grip of iron. In the struggle, the pin sliced across my own collarbone, drawing a thin line of blood.

Damien's eyes flashed with something between anger and admiration. "So the mouse has claws."

I glared at him, breathing hard. "I am not your property."

"On the contrary, Miss Emerson." He released my wrist but kept his gaze locked with mine. "You are exactly that. And now I know why your father was so eager to see you sold at auction. The question is..." He traced the line of blood on my collarbone with his thumb. "Do you know what you're carrying on your skin?"

The night stretched before us, filled with unspoken threats and dangerous promises. I had lost the first round in this deadly game, but as blood trickled down my chest, I made a silent vow: Damien Blackwood would not win the war.