Chapter 2

Harley Pennington POV:

Sleep didn't come. I tossed and turned in the king-sized bed of the penthouse suite Killian kept for me, the sheets feeling like sandpaper against my skin. The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting sterile patterns on the walls. Every shadow seemed to hold Connor' s furious face, every distant siren sounded like Katerina' s imagined scream.

Around 3 a.m., I gave up. I was pulling on a robe when I heard a faint click from the direction of the suite' s main door. My blood ran cold. The security in this building was airtight. No one got to this floor without clearance.

Before I could even reach for my phone, the bedroom door burst open. Two large men in dark clothes and ski masks filled the doorway. My scream was choked off as one of them lunged, his hand clamping over my mouth, the smell of stale coffee and sweat filling my nostrils.

I fought. I kicked and thrashed, my nails digging into the thick arm wrapped around my torso, but it was like fighting a brick wall. The other man produced a roll of duct tape. They bound my wrists and ankles with brutal efficiency, then slapped a piece of tape over my mouth. A black hood was shoved over my head, plunging me into a suffocating, terrifying darkness.

I was thrown over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The motion was jarring, my head bouncing against a hard shoulder blade. I was carried out of the suite, down a service elevator I didn't even know existed, and into what felt like the cold night air of a parking garage.

The back door of a van slammed shut, and I was tossed onto the hard, ridged floor. The vehicle lurched into motion, throwing me against the side. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. This wasn't a simple robbery. This was a professional kidnapping.

After what felt like an eternity of rough turns and sudden stops, the van finally halted. The back doors creaked open, and I was dragged out by my bound arms, my bare feet scraping against gritty concrete.

I was shoved through a doorway, the air growing thick and stale, heavy with the smell of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, and something metallic, like old blood.

Rough hands pulled the hood from my head.

The sudden, blinding glare of a spotlight made me squeeze my eyes shut. When I forced them open, blinking against the harsh light, my heart stopped.

I was on a stage.

Below me, a sea of leering faces stared up. Men, mostly. Rich, old, and predatory. Their eyes roamed over my body, clad only in a thin silk nightgown, with a hunger that made my stomach churn. It was some kind of auction, a grimy, illicit one held in a warehouse that reeked of decay.

"Let me go!" My voice was a muffled cry against the duct tape. "You have no idea who I am! I am Harley Pennington!"

A greasy-looking man in a cheap suit stepped onto the stage, a microphone in his hand. He chuckled, a wet, rattling sound.

"Harleey Pennington? Sure, sweetheart. And I' m the King of England," he sneered into the mic. The crowd laughed. "Now, gentlemen, let' s start the bidding for this lovely piece of merchandise. Fresh, as you can see. Let' s open at one hundred thousand dollars!"

Chaos erupted. Hands shot into the air. Numbers were shouted, each one higher than the last.

"Two hundred thousand!"

"Three-fifty!"

"Half a million!"

I thrashed against my restraints, screaming behind the tape, but my pleas were lost in the frenzied bidding. I was no longer a person. I was an object, a prize to be won. The price climbed with terrifying speed-a million, two million, five. My terror was a living thing, a wild animal trapped in my chest, clawing to get out.

"Sold!" the auctioneer finally yelled, slamming a gavel down. "To the gentleman in the back for ten million dollars!"

A wave of sickness washed over me. It was over. I had been sold.

Two guards untied my feet and dragged me off the stage, through a dark corridor, and shoved me into a small, windowless room. The door slammed shut, the lock clicking with a deafening finality.

A moment later, the door opened again. A portly man with a sweaty brow and small, piggish eyes stepped inside. He was holding a glass of champagne. He was my buyer.

"Ten million dollars," he said, his voice slick with slime. "You' d better be worth it." He took a step closer, his gaze crawling over me. "Though I have to say, Connor Tate wasn' t lying. You are a beauty."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Connor.

"What did you say?" I mumbled through the tape.

The man smiled, a grotesque twisting of his lips. He reached out and ripped the duct tape from my mouth. I gasped, the raw skin stinging.

"I said, Connor Tate sends his regards," the man repeated, enjoying my shock. "He said you needed to be taught a lesson. That you thought you were better than him. He sold you to me. Well, not sold, exactly. He gave you to me. As a gift. For our past business dealings."

The room tilted. The air rushed out of my lungs. Connor. Connor did this. He didn't just leave me, or cheat on me. He had orchestrated this. He had thrown me to the wolves to be torn apart. The man I had built, the man I had loved, had just tried to have me raped and broken for the crime of leaving him.

The man, my buyer, took another step closer. "Don' t worry, I' ll take good care of you. Connor said I could have my fun, and then he' d... collect what' s left."

His hand reached for the thin strap of my nightgown. I flinched back, pressing myself against the cold, damp wall.

"Don' t touch me," I hissed, my voice trembling. "I' ll give you double what he owes you. Twenty million. I can give you twenty million dollars. Just let me go."

He laughed. "Honey, it's not about the money anymore."

Terror, pure and undiluted, flooded every cell in my body. My mind went blank with it. This was it. This was how it ended. Stripped of my name, my power, my dignity, in a filthy room at the mercy of a monster.

He lunged, his fat fingers grabbing the silk of my gown. The fabric tore with a sickening sound.

A scream ripped from my throat, raw and desperate.

And then, the sound of splintering wood. The door to the room flew off its hinges, crashing to the floor with an explosive bang.

Framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor, stood Connor. And clinging to his arm, peering into the room with wide, feignedly innocent eyes, was Katerina.

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