Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
The room I’m led to is luxurious and lovely . . . but there’s a lock on the outside of the door. I’m also divested of my phone and bag. It’s enough to make me doubt, yet again, what I’ve decided to do.
This is beyond playing cat and mouse with a stalker. The first rule of safety is to not go to a secondary location, and I voluntarily boarded a plane and allowed this concierge to lock me in a cell.
“Please sign this.”
I stare at the contract. “Fuck.” It’s huge. Too huge to read through in one sitting, even if my eyes didn’t immediately cross when I had to wade through legalese. We have lawyers on staff for a reason.
The Concierge is unsympathetic. “We cannot move forward until you sign.”
I’m tempted to ask them for a CliffsNotes version, but there’s no reason to trust they’d be telling the truth. “I need to read this.”
“By all means.”
I expect them to leave. They don’t. They sit on the short chair across from me, cross their long legs, and . . . wait.
My skin heats as I page through the contract. Despite my fear of not understanding, it’s relatively straightforward. The House takes 20 percent of the winning bid on me. I get the rest.
By signing this—by participating in the auction as an item—I am giving consent to whatever the winner wants to do with me. The exceptions are anything that could maim or kill me . . . which leaves a lot to be desired.
I look at the Concierge. “No safe words?”
“The contract is your safe word.” They smile thinly. “And each room is outfitted with a panic button should such a thing be necessary.”
That’s . . . not how safe words work.
I keep reading. The contract removes House’s responsibility for any harm that befalls me. My only recourse lies in the fact that the three days I’m apparently offering at auction will happen on the premises, which means there will be someone who isn’t Wolf there if things go wrong. In that time, I can cancel the contract and repay the amount I received . . . for a truly ostentatious fee—an added 30 percent.
If Wolf is the one who wins . . . He has never hurt me. Scared me, yes, but he’s had plenty of opportunity to do actual harm, and he never crossed that line.
But who knows if Wolf even has money like we’re talking about here? He seems like he’s thought of everything, but what if there’s someone with deeper pockets than him? The security in this place is intense. He can’t kill his way through the crime scions of the East Coast to get to me.
The thought makes me tingle a little. I really am a foolish monster.
I sign before I can talk myself out of it. The Concierge gathers up the contract. “There’s a showing this afternoon before the auction itself. You will be expected to be silent and still for the duration.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard.
The Concierge leaves without another word. The lock clicks a few seconds later. I want to ask why they’re locking me in when I’ve consented to be here and signed the contract, but there’s no one to ask.
My seclusion doesn’t last long. A pair of people arrive and guide me into a different part of the building, where I’m subjected to a number of beauty treatments. A body scrub, a blowout, professional makeup. I thought I took good care of myself, have been called high-maintenance in the past, but this is on another level.
Through it all, they don’t say a word. After the third attempt at getting my questions answered, I give up and just enjoy the fun parts.
Unfortunately that’s when the grim thoughts start circling. Wolf made it sound like tonight he’d claim me publicly, but he might have been lying to keep me complacent. If one of Carver City’s enemies wins me in the auction . . . if they demand . . .
I shudder. I’m having regrets. Lots of regrets. Especially when I’m handed what I’m expected to wear for the viewing. “No. Absolutely not.”
The person—they never gave me their name—doesn’t blink. “We don’t have time to argue. Either wear this or wear nothing.”
I stare. Surely they wouldn’t make me go naked . . . but that’s exactly what they’re saying. Not that the garment hanging from their hands is much better. It’s not what Wolf picked out for me, but it covers just as little. Less, even.
No choice.
I pull on the sheer sheath dress; it’s a deep-emerald shade that makes the most of my lightly tanned skin and long red hair. The person’s hands me a pair of strappy stiletto sandals, and I slide them on with only a grimace of protest.
Then it’s showtime. Or viewing time, apparently.