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Chapter 2. Sold

“Time to make you presentable,” one of the guards grunted, his voice rough as he unlocked the iron door.

Amara held her ground, her body tense, her amber eyes blazing with defiance. She wouldn’t make it easy for them. But as one guard grabbed her arm, another joined in, their grip like iron clamps as they dragged her from the cage.

They pulled her through a narrow corridor away from the main hall, the dim torchlight growing fainter with each step. The passage smelled of damp stone and decay, the air growing colder and heavier. Amara struggled against their hold, but it was futile.

They stopped before a heavy wooden door and shoved it open, revealing a small, stark room. A single torch flickered in a bracket on the wall, casting eerie shadows over the sparse furnishings: a metal table with restraints, a tray of gleaming instruments, and a chair in the corner. Standing beside the table was a man dressed in a stained white coat.

The "doctor" turned toward them, his thin lips curling into a humorless smile. His hands were large and gnarled, veins bulging beneath pale, leathery skin. He gestured toward the table with a sharp nod.

“Lay her down,” he said, his voice clipped and clinical.

Amara thrashed as the guards forced her toward the table, but their grip was unyielding. “Get your hands off me!” she spat, her voice low and venomous.

The doctor didn’t react, his cold eyes fixed on her with the detachment of someone handling an object, not a person. The guards wrestled her onto the metal surface, strapping her arms and legs down with practiced efficiency.

No.

“Feisty one,” the doctor muttered, stepping closer. His hands descended on her, cold and invasive, as he inspected her with an indifferent thoroughness. He tilted her chin from side to side, pressed his fingers against her jaw, and traced her arms as though searching for imperfections.

No, no, no.

Amara recoiled from his touch, but the restraints held her firm. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage.

The doctor chuckled dryly, the sound devoid of warmth. “Oh, I don’t think so. My job is to make sure you don’t embarrass anyone—or hurt them. Buyers don’t like troublemakers.”

He reached for a syringe on the tray, the needle catching the torchlight as he drew a clear liquid into the barrel. Amara’s breath quickened as she watched him approach, her struggles renewed.

Oh, gods, please.

“Stop!” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Don’t you dare—”

The doctor grabbed her arm, his grip cruel and unyielding as he found the vein. The needle sank into her skin, a sharp, stinging pain that was over in seconds.

“This will make you more… buyable,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of compassion. “And compliant. Don’t worry—it’ll wear off by the time you’re safely in your buyer’s… hands.”

Something warm began to spread through her veins, dulling her anger, her fear, her thoughts. Her body felt heavy, as though the stone ceiling above had settled onto her chest. Some sort of a flame was starting to grow in her stomach. But it was not anger.

The doctor leaned back, wiping his hands on a rag as he motioned to the guards. “She’s ready.”

The guards unstrapped her, hauling her to her feet as her legs wobbled beneath her. Their touch felt scorching, as if they were touching her with sizzling hot metal. Amara gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her balance, to stay present, but her vision swam. The room blurred, the torchlight smearing into golden streaks as the guards dragged her back toward the auction hall.

Through the haze, she felt the fire of her defiance flicker, though it refused to go out completely. It now was transforming. She wanted to escape this feeling, this place, get rid of the situation. Her steps faltered, but her will remained, buried deep beneath the weight of whatever they’d injected her with.

As the murmurs of the crowd grew louder, the platform came into view. Amara felt the fire spreading through her body, leaving her skinless and open to the gazes and touches. She tried rubbing her arms as if to scratch this feeling off like a tick. But it wasn’t helping. It only made the things worse, as her own touches now felt excruciatingly numb. As if her body was looking for some other remedy.

And it was seeking it. She suddenly felt her own scent. The aroma, as if a hundredfold stronger, spread invitingly throughout the room. The crowd turned their heads on her, sensing her. Attractive, alluring, so tempting, and on display. A juicy piece of meat, so tempting to try and devour.

The salesman’s voice rang out, slick and triumphant.

“Ah, and now, dear friends, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Feast your eyes upon a marvel unlike any you have ever seen before! Behold, from the darkest woods of Basmera—the most dangerous place of all—comes this rarest beauty.”

Amara’s mind fought to sharpen, to focus. The crowd became a blur of faces, the torchlight a swirling haze of gold and shadow. But even in her drugged state, she knew one thing: she wasn’t beaten yet. Not here, not now, not ever. She only had to fight through this weird state, and make herself stand up. She had to.

They might have dulled her body, but they hadn’t extinguished her spirit. And no matter what happened next, she vowed silently that this wouldn’t be the end. It would only be the beginning.

“A land where even the tiniest creatures have but one desire: to kill and feast upon the corpses of their prey.”

The crowd murmured in awe and apprehension, eyes predatorily investigating the figure on the stage. Sensing their intrigue, the salesman continued, his tone dripping with theatrical reverence.

“And yet, I ventured there! Where any men would have perished, I found her—a vision, a treasure, one of her kind. The fiercest predators of Basmera bowed before her beauty, as if even they knew her value.”

His voluminous sleeves billowing as he extended his arm in a grand flourish. Her hands clenched, her anger simmering as the merchant’s voice rose above the crowd again, already setting the stage for her fate. “Look closely, dear friends! Behold her strength, her grace, her unmatched spirit. See the fire in her eyes, unyielding even in captivity. This is no ordinary Omega!”

Amara watched him with a side eye, her stomach twisting at the thought of his oily voice spinning her existence into gold for the highest bidder. Her dark hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face that was both striking and defiant, now drowsy and unsettled. Her amber eyes slowly opened and closed, throwing sharp gazes on the crowd. She was a portrait of fierce elegance, even within the confines of the chains and drugs. If only she wasn’t as weak and could suppress the drug, the crowd would all be awing to blood leaking from the slipped throat of the loud shorty.

The salesman gestured to her again, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “She is untamed power, raw and pure, awaiting the hand of an Alpha strong enough to command her loyalty! Imagine the legacy she will pass to your bloodline, the strength of her offspring! And most of all… A virgin! As pure as the child’s tear, untouched by any.”

The crowd erupted into murmurs, their interest piqued, their gazes lingering on Amara. The salesman’s grin widened, sensing the rising anticipation. He turned back to his audience, his hands outstretched as if offering them a gift of unparalleled value.

“So, tell me,” the auctioneer purred, his voice dripping with allure. “Who among you dares to claim her? Who among you has the courage—and the coin—to own a treasure from the untouchable wilds of Basmera?”

She felt the heat of their filthy, clinging like wet clothes stares, but she refused to bow her head. The felt disgusted, even nauseous from all this. Her heart pounded, with anger and fire, simmering like a coiled spring ready to snap.

The salesman turned back to the crowd, gold glinting from his earrings and rings as he opened the bidding with a triumphant flourish. “Let the auction begin! Starting bid: two hundred marks!”

The words hung in the air like a spell, casting a greedy gleam into the eyes of the onlookers. The first bid rang out almost immediately—a burly merchant in a faded cloak lifted his hand high. “Two and a half!” he shouted, his voice rough but eager.

“Three!” a lean, sharp-featured man countered from the back of the crowd, his tone biting and competitive.

The salesman’s grin widened, his bejeweled hands clasped together as he basked in the rising tension. “Ah, yes! That’s the spirit!” he crowed. “But surely, a treasure like this is worth far more than a mere three hundred marks!”

“Four!” came a shrill voice from the left, a wealthy noblewoman draped in silks of emerald and gold. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced toward her competitors, daring them to challenge her bid.

“Five!” bellowed the burly merchant again, his face reddening as he thrust his hand higher.

Amara sat in the cage, her eyes fixed on the crowd as the bids climbed higher and higher. The words swirled around her, but she focused instead on memorising faces and movements. Every bidder, every gesture—they were pieces of shit she was determined to clean from the sight of gods. Her heart thudded in her chest with the cold, calculating determination.

“Six!” called a younger man with a calculating air, his expression calm despite the growing tension.

“Seven!” snapped the noblewoman, her voice slicing through the crowd like a whip.

The salesman clapped his hands together, his grin now nearly splitting his face. “Oh, my dear bidders, do I hear eight? Surely, you won’t let such a vision slip through your fingers for anything less!”

The crowd murmured, the tension mounting as eyes darted back and forth between the remaining competitors.

“Thousand!” growled a voice from the far side of the room. It was deeper, smoother, commanding. Heads turned as a tall figure stepped into view.

He moved with a quiet confidence, his hand casually raised as if the bid was an afterthought.

The burly merchant and the calculating young man exchanged glances but said nothing, their silence signaling their withdrawal from the contest.

The salesman’s eyes sparkled with triumph. “Thousand silver marks going once, going twice...” He let the pause hang for dramatic effect, his gaze sweeping over the crowd one final time.

“Sold!” he roared, slamming his gavel down onto the edge of the platform. The sound echoed across the hall, sharp and final.

The crowd's murmurs filled with intrigue and curiosity about the mysterious bidder. Meanwhile, the tall figure stepped forward, his face obscured by the darkness of the room. He gestured his assistant, his movements deliberate and calm, and the man gave a pouch of coins to the salesman with a silent nod.

Amara watched him closely, her mind racing. The way he moved, the way the crowd seemed to instinctively give him space—there was something unsettling about him. He wasn’t like the others.

The salesman jingled the pouch in his hands, grinning, clearly pleased. “A wise choice, my friend. A wise choice indeed.”

Two guards in approached from somewhere behind the man, lifting Amara from her knees. Amara took one last deep breath, steeling herself for whatever came next.

While she was carried past, Amara met the gaze of the man. Though his face was still obscured, she felt the weight of his eyes on her—a scrutiny that sent a shiver down her spine.

It was the faintest glimmer of something unexpected, something she couldn’t quite place. But it was enough to stoke her resolve. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it head-on. And if this man thought she would go quietly, he was sorely mistaken.

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