Chapter Five

Ulric’s POV:

The streets disappear behind me as I approach the auction hall. Fenrir stirs beneath the surface. He can feel my tension and restlessness. 

I pull into the driveway of the auction hall. The car comes to a halt and I sit for a moment, hesitating to exit. 

The building sits isolated and dead, like a haunted forest, yet I can see it is alive with something dark and dangerous.

The doors open, and the scent hits me first: warm human sweat, the faint tang of perfume, and underneath it all, coffee, pine, and lavender, something soft, yet unmistakably potent. Fenrir’s ears twitch; the wolf growls low in warning, though I shove the sensation aside. It smells lovely, but I shake the feeling quickly.

A familiar voice breaks the tension.

“Ulric Wolfhart.”

Madam Sherry. Poised. Elegant. Wearing a red dress that hugs her form, emphasizing her curves. Her dark hair frames a face trained to command attention, and she smiles faintly as she approaches.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” she purrs, stepping closer. “You, walking into my auction…”

My jaw tightens. Fenrir snarls low.

“Step back,” I say flatly, eyes scanning the dim interior of the hall.

Her smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, don’t be so cold, Alpha. Surely you can enjoy the spectacle?”

I feel bile rise at the thought. “I’m not here for small talk, Sherry,” I say. “Move.”

Her lips curve faintly in amusement. “As you wish, but do try to enjoy yourself. Prices tonight are remarkable.”

I ignore her entirely, walking past toward the row of seats nearest the stage. Fenrir moves in tandem, instinctively pushing back against the aura of control she radiates. I sink into the chair, adjust my jacket, and refuse to acknowledge her further.

“Good,” she says smoothly, taking a small step back. “Then we may begin.”

The spotlight brightens over the first group of girls. Chains clink. Hair is pulled tight. Eyes are wide with fear.

“Lot numbers one through three,” Sherry announces, her voice raised above the murmurs. 

“Exquisite bodies, young, healthy, and well-trained.”

My hands clench into fists. Fenrir is restless, pacing in my head.

Bids are called, numbers raised, voices competing. I do not look at the girls. I do not consider them. I only feel every injustice, every humiliation in the air pressing against my chest.

The next group appears. Madam Sherry announces them as lot numbers four through six. The chains glint under the lights. Their bodies tremble with fear. The attention of the crowd, the calculating gazes, make my chest tighten. I keep myself rigid, Fenrir taut, coiled, waiting.

“And now, lot number seven.”

The spotlight swings to the center of the stage. And there stands a girl.

Shackled, bruised, and battered, she stands tall only because she has no choice. The faint scent of coffee, pine, and lavender hits me fully. Fenrir erupts inside me.

Mate

Every instinct screams, my claws itching to reach her, to claim her. But I do not move. I hold myself in check, letting the wolf simmer beneath the surface.

Her fear, confusion, the faint traces of punishment, every detail makes my stomach twist with fury. She is only eighteen. A virgin. And she is being auctioned like property.

I will not let it continue.

I rise slowly, deliberately, standing from my seat. Fenrir growls deep and low, every nerve on fire.

The bidding drowns out around me, but I ignore it. The men’s offers, their whistles, the clinking of chains, all of it vanishes. 

There is only her.

I step toward the stage. Fenrir surges beneath me, every muscle coiled, a predator sensing its mate.

Madam Sherry’s voice tries to draw attention back. “Such a rare one. Surely Alpha Wolfhart will make an offer.”

I raise a hand, cutting her off.

“Enough,” I growl, voice echoing through the hall. Fenrir’s presence fills the room. All eyes turn to me, and no one dares interrupt me.

I place my bid. Higher than the highest offer. The room freezes, whispers rippling through the crowd. Sherry arches an eyebrow, a faint smile on her lips.

I bid again. And again. My final figure silences everyone. This girl is mine. She belongs to me.

Madam Sherry glances toward Cole. A subtle gesture, and he steps forward. My blood begins to boil.

Cole handles her roughly, tugging at her chains, guiding her off the stage like she is nothing more than property. My fists clench. My teeth grind together. Fenrir roars inside me.

I watch as she stumbles slightly, restrained, her body forced to obey him. Every motion Cole makes is calculated and rough.

Cole disappears into the shadows with her, dragging her into a back room. My chest heaves. 

Every fiber of me burns with anger. Fenrir snarls and paces in my head.

She is mine. And no one will harm her while I draw breath.