Chapter Three – “Lot Thirty-One”

Eva

The holding room was too warm. Or maybe it was just me. They led me in without speaking, gloved hands silent and practiced. The heavy door clicked shut behind me with a finality that settled like lead in my chest. I was no longer in the suite. No longer a girl with a family or a name. Just Lot Thirty-One now.

The number had been strapped to my wrist — a black velvet band, elegant and soft against the skin. Pretty, like everything here. Pretty, like a collar might be.

The room was dressed like a luxury hotel lounge. Velvet benches. Gilded sconces. Low lighting that did nothing to soften the tension in the air. The scent of orchids tried to cover something colder — something metallic, sterile, almost like blood and bleach. Maybe that was just in my head. Maybe it wasn’t.

There were around twenty girls inside. Some sat rigid, hands locked together, eyes unfocused. Others whispered frantically, pacing, clutching their skirts like lifelines. One sobbed into her knees, shoulders shaking. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I sat near a curtain and folded my hands in my lap to hide their trembling. My mouth was dry. My tongue felt thick, useless. I couldn’t swallow.

“Lot Twenty-Two,” a voice called from beyond the doors. Smooth, practiced. Like an emcee introducing the next act.

A girl near the wall flinched. She stood — or tried to. Her legs gave out halfway up, and she pressed herself back against the bench like she could melt through it.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, please—”

Two men in dark suits approached. They didn’t say a word. Just reached for her arms and pulled her to her feet as she choked on a sob. Her heels scraped the marble as they dragged her away. The door thudded shut behind them.

Someone exhaled too loudly. Another girl pressed her knuckles to her mouth like she might be sick. I didn’t breathe at all.

The next girl — Lot Twenty-Three — looked like she was born for this. Flawless skin. A gown that shimmered in the dim light. When her number was called, she stood without hesitation, her spine a perfect line of confidence. But as she stepped past the curtain, I saw it — just for a moment. The tightness in her jaw. The flicker of panic.

The stage beyond the partition was gold-lit and circular, built like a private amphitheater. Velvet chairs. Tiered levels. Shadows leaned forward to watch her — quiet, curious, hungry.

The auctioneer smiled. “Lot Twenty-Three. A beauty from the southern territories. Human. Unmarked. Eighteen years old. Opening bid?”

I watched through a slit in the curtain, breath frozen in my chest. The numbers rose fast.

“Five thousand.”

“Six.”

“Nine.”

She smiled, lips painted like rubies. She bowed as the gavel fell.

“Sold.”

She walked off-stage gracefully, but the smile disappeared as she stepped back through the door. Her eyes were empty.

Lot Twenty-Four didn’t speak.

Lot Twenty-Five came back with her makeup smeared.

Lot Twenty-Six had to be corrected by the auctioneer mid-sale for forgetting to stand correctly.

And then came Lot Twenty-Eight. I’ll never forget her face. She looked young. Too young. Her gown clung wrong, like someone else had chosen it for her without care. Her eyes were glassy. Her lips trembled as she stepped onto the stage.

The auctioneer tried to be charming. “Lot Twenty-Eight. Human. Nineteen. Healthy. Untrained. A rare delicacy.”

No bids came. The silence was louder than any scream.

“Shall we start at one thousand?” he asked. “Seven-fifty? Five?”

Still nothing. Her breath hitched. I felt mine vanish entirely. She stumbled past the curtain and collapsed to her knees when she was brought back in. Then the sobbing started. Loud. Guttural. Unstoppable. Two staff members moved quickly, one with a sedative already drawn. She thrashed as they held her down.

I stared at my hands. They weren’t shaking anymore. They were numb.

“Better to be bought than left behind.”

The voice came from beside me. A girl, maybe my age, maybe younger. Flawless skin. Eyes dull with experience.

I turned to her, too slowly. “What?”

“At least the Ashbournes always buy,” she said softly, staring straight ahead. “If you’re lucky, they’ll take you. Better them than no one.”

Ashbourne.

The name sliced through me like broken glass.

I didn’t know them—not personally. But I’d heard things. Everyone had.

Vampire nobility. Cold. Old money. Old power. They don’t keep pets. They keep possessions.

I thought of the girl with no bids. Of the sobbing. The sedative. I thought of disappearing or being forgotten. I wondered what would happen if I ran. Would they drag me, too? Would I scream? Would anyone care? Maybe it would be better not to be bought. Maybe I wouldn’t have to try so hard to survive anymore. My stomach turned.

“Lot Thirty-One.”

The voice echoed across the room like a bell at the end of a funeral. I stood. Not because I was ready, but because someone had to.