Chapter 4 SOLD

Amara tugged at the plain dress, the thin fabric scraping her skin. The shoes they'd given her pinched at the toes, the worn heels forcing her into small, uneven steps.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror-hair pinned in a rushed, messy twist, eyes wide and frightened.

"Is that the best you can do?" The woman snapped, her voice cutting like a whip.

Amara's lips pressed together.

It didn't matter how she looked. Not in this place. She lowered her head and obeyed.

The woman waved her toward the corridor.

"Move. He doesn't have time for hesitation." The woman flicked her fingers sharply, as if swatting away Amara's existence.

Amara followed, the tray in her hands wobbling with two small cups of wine and a slice of bread. Her stomach churned with every step. Shadows of other girls slid across the walls

silent, bowed, moving like ghosts.

A distant door slammed. A faint, muffled scream echoed. Amara's heart jumped into her throat.

The woman stopped at a massive wooden door, its surface scarred and darkened with age.

"This is your stage," she said quietly. "Don't waste a second. And remember he notices everything."

Amara tightened her grip on the tray. Her legs felt like wet cloth. Every step forward echoed like a warning.

The woman leaned close, breath cold against Amara's ear.

"He won't tolerate hesitation. Fail him, and you'll wish you hadn't come."

Then the woman stepped back, letting the door swing open.

Amara froze at the threshold. A shadow moved inside tall, imposing, and silent. The sharp bite of expensive cologne mixed with something metallic stung her nose.

The woman's hand pressed briefly against her shoulder, a last push, then she withdrew.

"Go," she said, flat and merciless.

Amara stepped in. The tray rattled in her hands. The door slammed behind her, and she flinched hard, heart thundering.

What do I do? What now?

Her palm tingled.

Something cold.

She looked down. The tiny brass key.

She hadn't even realized she was still clutching it.

Didn't know why she kept it.

Didn't know why she felt... connected to it.

But she needed her hands free.

With a trembling breath, she raised the key toward her tangled hair.

Her fingers shook as she slid it beneath a loose coil, tucking it into the disorder of dark strands.

Not hidden well and not perfectly placed.

But as the cool metal touched her scalp, something steadier stirred inside her a tiny spark of defiance she hadn't meant to feel... hadn't dared to claim.

She opened her mouth to whisper something, but she didn't even know what-

"Girl!" a guard barked from outside, voice rough. "Take the tray in. Now!"

Amara jumped, the tray nearly slipping. She steadied it quickly, breath shuddering out of her chest.

Her heart beat too high in her throat, the brass key trembling where she'd hidden it in her hair.

She lifted her hand and knocked. Soft. But steady enough to feel dangerous.

"Enter," a deep voice answered immediately.

She pushed the door open.

Dim lantern light flickered, throwing long shadows across the stone. The walls felt close, heavy... like a room made for sins, not sleep.

Hargrave wasn't sitting.

He stood with his back to her shoulders rigid, one hand resting on a chair like he was steadying himself or studying the dark.

Not relaxed. Not welcoming. Just still as a blade.

Amara's grip tightened around the tray.

"S-sir... your supper," she whispered.

He didn't turn.

But she felt him notice her-felt it like fingers dragging across her skin.

Slowly, he inhaled, like a predator scenting the air.

The tray wobbled in her hands.

Her shoes pinched her heels, breath scraping in and out as though the air itself resisted her.

When she reached the edge of his shadow, he finally turned just enough that one pale eye caught hers.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Step forward," he murmured.

Amara moved. One small step.

Then another.

"So this is Morwen's little treasure." His gaze slid down her sleeve, the uneven hem of her dress. "Unpolished. But serviceable."

Her stomach twisted so sharply she almost lost her breath.

"S-sir, I-I should place the tray down and-"

She took a step back.

Hargrave's hand caught her wrist. Not tight.

Not rough. Calm. As if he had all the time in the world to ruin her.

"Where are you going, girl?" he whispered, tilting his head. "I haven't dismissed you."

"I-I only came to serve your food," she stammered. "I wasn't told to stay-please, I need to go-"

He pulled her closer with a soft, practiced tug. The tray clattered onto the table.

"Morwen sent you because she's done with you," he breathed near her ear. "She sold you for coin. And for whatever purpose I choose."

The words punched the air from her lungs.

She froze.

Not because of him-because it finally made sense.

Morwen hadn't sent her away in anger.

She had sold her.

Fully. Finally. Completely.

Her father's face flashed in her mind, kind eyes, warm voice.

"Stay close to people who protect you, little dove."

He was gone.

And she had been left to wolves.

"No," she choked out. "No, she wouldn't-"

A shadow shifted behind her. The tray clattered.

One step. And she would see exactly what Morwen had sold her into.

Hargrave's hand snapped out-he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward.

She gasped as he slammed her down onto the bed, breath ripping out of her lungs.

"Stop!" she cried, kicking uselessly.

His hand struck her-

a sharp crack splitting the air.

Stars burst behind her eyes.

For a moment she could only feel the sting on her cheek.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The taste of copper flooded her throat.