Auction

"I don't want to be a good girl." That sounds petulant, because it is.

"Yes, you do. You want to be my very good girl, and Tore's and Zen's and Keanau's and Pharaoh's and Alexios' and Cowboy's..."

"There's too many of you."

"Too many all at once, sure," Silver concedes. "But over time you will find your place with all of us. We are all very different people. We have very different things to offer."

"Right now, you all offer the same beatings."

"Because you need to be disciplined. We know what you're like, Trissa. You're dangerous when you're not supervised. You turn beauty into death. You take your revenge when the time is right. You had impeccable timing with the sheriff. The kind that can't be taught."

I try not to be too pleased at what doesn't seem to be a compliment, more than a simple statement of fact.

"We know we can't trust you. And that's why you can trust us."

"You're talking in riddles," I snort.

"He's saying we're going to be all over your little ass." A deep, bass-y voice makes me turn. It's Pharaoh, entering the room. He takes my breath away. There's something so anciently attractive about him, but entirely elegant.

He crooks his finger at me, beckoning me from Tore's arms. I don't move. I don't know what Pharaoh wants me for, but I am too sore to satisfy any more male desires today.

"Come here, Trissa."

"No."

Tore gets up and slaps my bottom, but lightly. "Do as he says."

"Why?"

The next slap is not as light. I hiss and curse and move slightly toward him, doing as I am told even though I very much do not want to.

Pharaoh takes me by the hand and leads me from the cozy little chamber. "I have something to show you."

I can only imagine the horrors that await me. Every time I am shown something, it is something that pokes me, sticks me, fucks me...

"Your new room," he says, drawing me through a doorway.

"Oh."

It is beautiful. There is a bed, not so large ten people can fit in it, more a cozy place for two. There are closets, ornately inlaid into the wall, and when I open them, they are full of clothes. Dresses, mostly, made of the finest silks and satins.

I turn to look at him. He's not wearing armor anymore, I notice. He's wearing a white shirt and dark pants and he looks almost civilized. It's nice to see him without heavy plating in the way, though I do like the way armor makes men look dangerous and large.

"You can have a bath," he says. "And get dressed. You've earned clothing."

"You're not afraid I'll hide a knife in it?"

He smirks. "We'll pat you down before we hug you."

A question strikes me.

"What happened to the sheriff's harem?"

"Hm?"

"The sheriff's personal women?"

"They're being tended to as usual. The new king of Dallas will take them, I assume."

"You haven't had them?"

The question slips out.

He laughs. "Jealous?"

What could I possibly have to be jealous of? Seven mercenaries bought me. I should be begging and pleading for my freedom, asking them to please just let me go.

Instead I am standing here, naked, freshly deflowered, and wondering if the handsome man in front of me has sampled the wares of any of the women kept for the sheriff's pleasure.

He comes toward me, takes me by both hands and looks down at me, speaking with sincerity. "We came for you, Trissa."

"No, you didn't. You came for the sheriff."

"We came for the sheriff," he admits. "But we wanted you. We still want you. Not anybody else. Just you."

That shouldn't make me feel as good as it does. I am captive, I have to remind myself. But why do I have to keep reminding myself of that? Could it be because I want them too? Because the idea of having seven ruthless mercenaries with me in this world is attractive on a level far deeper than the merely sexual?

"I was alone for a long time," I say softly.