Chapter Two

Julia's POV

The air changed once they hauled us out of the dark, filthy room.

It wasn't fresh or free; it was hotter here, dense with the stench of sweat, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne that clung to the back of my throat. My tongue was trapped on the roof of my mouth. Men were cheering like beasts ahead of me, at first low and guttural, then rising in waves that rattled my ribs.

And somewhere, a girl shouted—not a scream for help, but the type you let out when you know help isn't coming. The noise immediately swallowed a piercing, high-pitched sound, as if it held no significance.

I kept my head down, and the noise instantly absorbed the piercing, high-pitched sound, as if it held no significance. Hair fell like a veil over my face. Let them think I was weak, broken, and already tamed. Allow them to think I was just another fearful little thing they could sell, use, and dump. My wrists were shackled, or so they assumed. The tiny rope was a joke, a prop to maintain the illusion.

My fingers had already discovered the slack, loosening it with the patience of someone with nothing to lose.

Tucked between the waistband of my panties, buried beneath ripped, filthy fabric, was the small knife I'd always carried for safety. The handle pressed into my hip with each step, reminding me that I wasn't utterly powerless.

I'd take advantage of whatever mistake they made.

The guard's strong hand pushed me forward, his hold painful. His breath was foul as it struck my ear when he said, "Move."

When his hand loosened, I shifted my hips and flicked my fingers under the waistband. In a single motion, I had the knife free, and the cool steel felt alive in my hand—hungry.

I needed to escape, to leave this hellhole, where women and young girls were bought and sold, exploited, and discarded. And when I got the hell out of here, I'd meet my father and ask him why he hadn't looked for me, why he had waited until this man snatched me away, and how he was doing without me, his only daughter, since my mother's death.

I played with the cold steel, gaining all of my body's courage and confidence, and then, before he could react, I sank it deep into the side of his thighs.

His scream pierced the air, primal, ugly, and so satisfying that it made my pulse race. I didn't stop there; I twisted the blade, felt the muscle give way under the pressure, and ripped it out, hot blood pouring across my arm.

I raced while the other men and women halted in disbelief. Shouts erupted behind me.

"Find that bitch!" "Dead or alive!"

Boots pounded the soil, drawing closer. My bare feet pounded against the uneven terrain, and each stride sent a thrill up my legs. I didn't look back; I darted through shadows, dodging half-drunk guys, disregarding the curses they hurled at me. My lungs burned, and my eyesight became blurry from adrenaline.

Then the headlights came on.

A sleek black automobile idled slightly ahead, unusually tidy for this location. Too polished. The window rolled down an inch, and I saw him.

Those familiar crystal blue eyes reminded me of someone's tattooed face.

I couldn't stop myself from feeling a peculiar familiarity, even though I didn't recognize him. It only took a minute of uncertainty.

Hands grabbed me from behind and yanked the knife from my fingers. My feet lifted off the ground as they yanked me back, kicking and writhing like a trapped animal. I yelled and clawed at their arms, but they just laughed.

It burnt me more than the pain: their laughter, ridicule, and the reminder that no matter what I did, they would always be ahead of me.

And then—

I saw him. My father, who raised me and promised to protect me, was the man I looked up to.

He was clothed in a neat black suit and had a mischievous smirk on his face. What was he doing here? He did not appear to be seeking me out.

"Daddy?" I mumbled, hoping he'd turn to me and curse at them for letting me leave.

He didn't even glance at me; instead, he laughed and collected a briefcase from someone before shaking his hand.

Before departing, he gave me a glance, his eyes frigid, and I couldn't identify the person who raised me.

"I promised your mother I'd protect you until the day I die." I could still hear him saying it. But where is the promise? It disappeared into thin air.

They hauled me to the stage. The auctioneer was waiting, his grin gleaming with spit. "Oh, the feisty ones are always my favorite," he remarked. "Do you think you can run, little thing? I will subdue that spirit of yours."

Before I could respond, he slammed me to the ground, and the two men pinned me down. My knees smacked forcefully, hurting my spine. His weight pressed down on top of me, crushing my ribs and forcing air out of my lungs. His hands were everywhere, rough and eager, smelling of perspiration and alcohol.

"Fuck, princess, you're perfect; my customers would be so lucky to have you."

He roared like an animal and placed his hands on my dress. My dress had been torn, and I was left in nothing but my underpants, exposed to the throng.

The men around us cheered, as if they were watching a sporting event. Their expressions turned into masks of hunger and hate. I could feel their eyes crawling over my flesh, removing all dignity I had left.

Then I spat in his face, and his grin peeled off.

"Fucking bitch…" He wiped his face and slapped me hard on my cheeks, snapping my head to the side. My ears rang, and the taste of copper permeated my lips.

"You'll regret that," he hissed, his breath hot against my cheek. Then he reached deep inside his belt and emerged with a knife in his palm, which glittered beneath the intense lights. He pushed the blade to my arms without warning, an evil smirk on his lips, and pulled it slowly and carefully, slicing skin like it was nothing.

Pain ripped through me, blinding and searing, with blood running down my elbow. The audience yelled their delight, some flinging money at me, and their eyes lit up as they waited for more.

The air changed as he smirked and reached lower, grabbing my panties' waistband. It happened in a second, and the cheering and laughter stopped.

"Isn't that cheating?" Men in black arrived out of nowhere, moving like shadows given shape. They didn't shout or threaten; they didn't need to. They simply descended, yanking the auctioneer off me with violent quickness.

"What the hell?" The auctioneer yelled and sprang to his feet. "She's not bought yet!"

A deep, raspy voice responded, calm and chilly enough to freeze my veins.

"Keep your hands off my property."

Every gaze turned to the VIP section; he was there, the man I saw in the car, seated as if he owned not only this room but the entire world outside of it. His face was obscured, but I could see his lips make a tiny line. His black suit was cut sharply enough to murder, and his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to suggest danger and strength, rather than comfort.

His crystal blue eyes pierced through the dim light, sharp and unreadable, like they held a storm beneath their calm. Black curls framed his face, falling just enough to soften the edges of his sharp jawline. There was a thin scar tracing the bridge of his nose... subtle, but enough to add a dangerous edge that somehow made him more captivating. He looked like trouble wrapped in dark beauty, the kind of man you couldn't look away from, even when you wanted to.

"Lucian Moretti," the auctioneer muttered, his eyes widening as if he had just seen a ghost.

Lucian Moretti's name repeated in my head; I've heard it countless times from other people, including my father. He spoke that word as if it were taboo in his mouth.

The room felt smaller with him in it. His presence weighed down on everyone, unseen but oppressive.

The auctioneer sneered, attempting to rise taller. "Property? "You have not—"

A man moved forward, placing a black briefcase on the table in front of Lucian. The metallic click of the locks sounded like a gunshot in the strained silence. The lid lifted to show stacks of crisp dollars, tightly bound together. Gold glinted in between, capturing the light.

"Eight million dollars, give her to me," he replied simply. Then, almost as an afterthought, "And I'll take something else, too."

Lucian's hand moved before the auctioneer could object. A knife appeared to have always been there. In one vicious, practiced action, he stabbed the man's hand through the table.

The auctioneer's shout ripped through the air. Blood spilled from his knuckles.

Lucian did not flinch as he twisted the sword slowly and deliberately until the sound of tearing flesh broke the silence. Then, without losing eye contact, he cut off two of the man's fingers.

The auctioneer collapsed to the floor, holding his damaged hand and asking for mercy. Lucian stood from his seat with the ease of someone aware that everyone was watching him. His eyes pierced through the crowd and focused solidly on me.

"Get him cleaned up," he told his soldiers, softly, in a voice that coiled around my throat like a noose—

"Jules."

My lungs froze. No one has called me that in years, except my mother and father, before she died, and him—back then.

Hearing that directly from him felt like the ground shifted beneath me. My stomach fell, my thoughts swirled, and for a brief moment, I was unsure whether it was the blood loss or the realization that the devil himself knew my name.