Page 72 of Depraved

My head lolls forward. A cloth is forced between my teeth, gagging me.

“Whoever makes her pay for that gets a personal favor from me,” he says thickly. “Start bidding.”

“Five hundred thousand,” one man says.

I can’t see who’s talking, but he sounds American. All I can do is stare at my feet and shake; my body won’t cooperate with my will.

Sokolov scoffs. “I should kill you for being so cheap. Bidding starts at a million dollars. I know you’re all good for it.”

“You’re forgetting that Ragnarök ruined some of us,” another man spits in a French accent.

“That’s your problem. If you aren’t serious about your revenge, get the fuck out and let the others bid.”

“A million,” the same man seethes.

The Russian’s meaty fist tangles in my hair, wrenching my head back so they can see my face more clearly. “This is Ragnarök’s woman,” he reminds them. “The man who took your kin from you, your power. Your birthrights. Put some real money on the line.”

“How do we know he won’t find us?” The American asks. “Ivanov and Costa have gone dark. They’re probably dead already.”

My abuser sneers. “Ivanov and Costa were pawns. They were never good for the money. I used them to find Ragnarök and pull him out of hiding. He’s unrecognizable now, but he’s just as obsessed with her as he’s always been. I knew she’d lead me to him.”

My fault.

If Brandon finds me somehow and comes here, his death will be because of me.

All over again.

I’d rather die than live through that loss.

But I’m not ready to give up.

I lock my weak knees and find my footing. I can’t speak through the gag, but I glower at the Russian.

He bares his teeth at me. “Anyone who buys her and lets me watch her break gets a second personal favor.”

Ultimately, I know I’m powerless against these men, but I will do everything possible to inflict damage before the end.

He’s made the mistake of getting in my face. His grip on my hair prevents me from headbutting him again, but his broken nose is an inch from my arm.

I twist my bound body, swinging my elbow towards him. I barely make impact, but his injured face is tender enough that he reels back with a curse.

The Frenchman speaks again. “Two million. I like them spirited.”

“Five million,” another man says.

The next bid is lost beneath my scream as the taser slams into my side again, driving deep beneath my ribs.

The world goes black.

Only the worried murmurs around me let me know that I haven’t passed out from the pain.

The lights have gone out.

“There’s a backup generator,” Sokolov says. “I’m sure it’s just an outage. It’s an old building.”

The lights come back on.

“See? Everything’s fine.”