Naked Pages
I say, but my gaze doesn’t leave him—Lot Number 17.
He’s on his knees under the golden light, wrists bound in front of him, a black mask covering half his face. His shirt is ripped, his chest rising and falling like he’s been running for hours. Even from here, I can see the bruises on his wrists, the way the rope bites into his skin. He’s breathing like he’s choking on pride.
And God help me, he’s beautiful in a way that’s meant to be dangerous.
The auctioneer is talking, voice smooth like oil. “Lot Number Seventeen. Age twenty-six. Fit. Highly trained. Special skills include—”