The auction

CHAPTER 2:

RAVEN'S POV:

The mirror in my Brooklyn apartment bathroom is cracked in the top left corner, been that way since I moved in three years ago, I never bothered fixing it because it matches the rest of me.

I stare at my reflection under the harsh bulb light, face half shadowed already, and feel the emptiness settle like an old habit.

Tonight's not about beauty only, it's about bait. About becoming the kind of woman Damien Blackwood can't resist bidding on.

I start with the foundation, heavy, matte, the kind that turns my skin into porcelain armor.

Concealer over the faint scar on my left cheekbone from a knife fight two years back, barely noticeable, but I don't take chances.

Then the eyes, smoky black liner winged sharp enough to cut, lashes extended with falsies that make them look predatory.

Contacts, deep hazel tonight, not my natural gray. They change the whole face, make me someone else. Someone he won't recognize until it's too late.

The wig came next, long, glossy black waves cascading past my shoulders, bangs swept to one side to partially veil the upper half of my face.

It's not just a disguise, it's the distance. When I dance, when I let men look, I never show all of me.

The mask is literal tonight, thin black lace that covers from nose to forehead, leaving only my mouth and chin exposed.

It looks like high end fetish wear, but it's practical, hides bone structure, hides the hate that must be leaking from my eyes.

Outfit selection is strategic. I pull the black corset top from the back of the closet boned, laced tight in front, plunging low enough to draw eyes downward and away from my face.

Paired with a high waisted feathered skirt that hugged my hips and ass like paint, with hidden compartments for a slim blade and a mini taser and for shoes, I went for the black pointy heels.

The romper from last night stays in the laundry, tonight calls for something more performative, more vulnerable on the surface.

I strap the garter belt with extra sheaths and two throwing knives on each thigh, concealed under the skirt's hem. The weight feels reassuring, grounding.

I practiced the walk in front of the full length mirror on the bedroom door, hips swaying slowly and deliberately, shoulders back, chin lifted just enough to look arrogant instead of scared.

The heels click against the hardwood like gunshots. I roll my neck, loosen my jaw, force a sultry smile that doesn't reach my eyes. Mirror me looks dangerous, desirable, untouchable.

Good. That's the illusion I need him to buy.

Lila's asleep in the next room. I slip in quietly, stand over her bed for a minute.

She's curled on her side, stuffed bear clutched under her chin, breathing soft and even.

Moonlight from the cracked blinds paints silver stripes across her face, those damn gray eyes closed now, lashes fanned on her cheeks.

I brush a strand of hair off her forehead, light as I can. She stirs but doesn't wake.

"I love you," I whisper, the words tasting foreign after a night of blood. "I'll be home before you know it."

I close her door softly, grab my clutch burner phone, fake ID, small vial of sedative just in case and head out.

The subway ride downtown is a blur of flickers and strangers avoiding eye contact.

I keep my head down, hood up, but inside my mind is racing through contingencies.

If he doesn't bid, I pivot to plan B, slip into his private office during the afterparty, knife to throat in the dark. If he does bid, I let him think he's won.

Let him get close. Then remind him what happens when you take without asking.

**********************************

Eclipse looms at the end of a discreet side street in the Meatpacking District, black facade, no sign, just a single red light above a steel door guarded by two bouncers built like refrigerators.

I flash the fake ID and the invite code I bought off a contact earlier. One of them scans it, nods, opens the door.

Bass hits me like a physical force, deep and throbbing, vibrating through my bones.

Inside, the club is a cave of velvet and sin.

Dim red and purple lighting, crystal chandeliers dripping low over leather booths, mirrors everywhere reflecting bodies in motion.

The stage is central, circular, with poles that gleam under spotlights.

Women and a few men move on it in various states of nakedness, bodies glistening with oil or sweat, eyes distant or hungry.

Tables ring the stage, filled with men in suits who look like money and women who look like they know how to spend it. The air is thick with expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the metallic tang of arousal.

I make my way to the back, where the "talent" entrance is. A woman in a headset manager, probably looks me up and down, nods approvingly.

"You're the last-minute addition? Raven Noir?"

"That's me."

"Private dance auction starts in twenty.

You're lot seven. Get changed if you need to, then wait in the green room.

Bids start at ten grand. Don't disappoint."

She hands me a numbered paddle 07 and disappears into the crowd.

The green room is a narrow space behind the stage mirrors, makeup stations, racks of lingerie and costumes, girls touching up lipstick or adjusting straps.

Some chat, some stare blankly at phones, some stretch like cats.

I find an empty stool, sit, cross my legs, and wait. My pulse is steady, but there's a low hum under my skin anticipation, not fear.

I've faced worse than a rich man with a hard on.

The music shifts, slower now, sultrier. A voice comes over the speakers smooth, male, practiced.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Eclipse's exclusive midnight auction. Tonight's selection is exquisite, each performer available for one private hour. Bidding starts at ten thousand dollars. Remember, what happens in Eclipse stays in Eclipse."

Lot one goes first, a blonde in red lace who moves like liquid fire. Bids climb fast, fifteen, twenty, thirty. Sold for forty-two grand to a man in the front row with a Rolex that could buy a house.

I watch through the curtain gap, cataloging faces. No Damien yet. My stomach tightens, not nerves, just hunger. I want him here, watching, wanting.

Lot two, three, four each one hotter, bids higher. By lot six, the energy in the room is electric, thick with money and lust.

Then the voice announces, "Lot seven, Raven Noir."

The curtain parts.

Spotlights blind me for a second.

I step out onto the stage, heels clicking, hips rolling slow.

The music drops to a deep, pulsing beat, something dark and sensual, bass vibrating up my spine.

I grip the pole, swing around once, letting the wig cascade, letting the lace mask catch the light.

I don't look at the crowd yet. I feel them, eyes on my body, on the way the cloth hangs to my body, on the way my thighs flex as I drop low, rise slow, back arched.

Then I look.

He's there.

Front row center, black suit tailored to perfection, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar just enough to show tanned skin.

Damien Blackwood. Older than the memory, sharper, colder. His face is all angles, high cheekbones, jaw like carved

stone, mouth set in a line that could be boredom or hunger. Storm-gray eyes locked on me, unblinking.

My breath catches, not fear, not yet. Something else. Recognition. Rage. And underneath it, a flicker I hate, the way his gaze drags over me like he already owns the hour.

Like he knows exactly what he wants to do with it.

I spin the pole again, slower this time, letting my legs open just enough to tease.

The mask hides my expression, but my mouth curves, small, dangerous.

The bidding starts.

"Ten thousand."

"Fifteen."

"Twenty."

Voices overlap, numbers climbing fast. Damien doesn't speak yet.

He just watches, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.

"Thirty."

"Forty."

"Fifty."

Still nothing from him.

My stomach twists.

What if he doesn't bid? What if I have to pivot, sneak into his office later?

Then his voice cuts through the noise low, calm, commanding.

"One hundred thousand."

The room goes quiet for a heartbeat.

The auctioneer recovers. "One hundred thousand from the gentleman in front. Do I hear one ten?"

Silence.

"Sold! To Mr. Blackwood for one hundred thousand dollars."

Applause ripples. I stepped off the stage, heart pounding not from the money, but from the look in his eyes when he said my stage name. Like he was tasting it. Like he recognized something he couldn't place.

A handler escorts me through a side door, down a dim hallway lined with private rooms.

We stop at number 12. The door opens. Damien's already inside, standing by the floor to ceiling window overlooking the club floor, back to me.

The door clicks shut behind me.

We're alone.

He turns slowly.

Those gray eyes meet mine through the lace mask.

And for the first time in ten years, the emptiness inside me cracks just a hairline fracture.

But it's enough.

I feel it.

The hate surges, hot and alive.

He steps closer.

"Take off the mask," he says, voice low, commanding.

I smile behind the lace.

"Not yet."

His jaw tightens.

"You think you set the rules here?"

I tilt my head, let the wig fall over one shoulder.

"Tonight? Yes."

He closes the distance in two strides, stops inches away.

I can smell him, sandalwood, leather, power. The same scent that still haunts me.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing the edge of the mask.

I don't flinch.

But my pulse spikes.

And in that second, with his breath on my face and his eyes boring into mine, I knew, this isn't just revenge anymore.

It's something worse.