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“Tyran will make her happy,” Kyran assured. “He’s a good man.”

I recalled the day I rescued my daughter from that blasted auction. I saw that asshole—Tyran Callahan—there, which told me there was nothing good about that man.

Standing in the square in Porto Alegre, Brazil, I watched women being auctioned off, one by one, and kept a gaze on the only one who mattered to me.

Sienna hadn’t noticed me yet, a woman next to her comforting her and holding her up.

My stomach churned watching the terrorized women, all dressed in white nightgowns, being sold in this creepy-as-fuck portside town.

Sienna stood on that stage among a dozen other frightened girls and women, her wide and haunted eyes dominating her pale, dirt-smeared face, stamped with terror.

Every so often, she blinked, her gaze dazed and unfocused, as though she were barely seeing around her.

Fuck. What had they done to her?

Bile burned up my throat. My ears rang with rage and my fists clenched so tightly my nails cut into my palms. I wanted to tear through every person in that room with my bare hands. I wanted to drag Sienna off that stage, shield her from every filthy stare, and make anyone who had touched her beg for mercy.

Then the bidding began.

I raised my hand.

Another bid came.

I raised it again.

And another bid came in against mine.

I sought out the fucker who dared to bid for my daughter and my eyes locked on a tall, dark figure. He was watching me with a clenched jaw and blue flames.

There was no fucking way I would let him near Sienna.

I stopped caring how high the amount climbed. I would drain every account, sell every asset, and walk away with nothing but the clothes on my back if that was what it took. Let them have my money. Let them have everything but her.

Because there was no fucking chance in hell I was going home to my wife without Sienna.

“Sold.”

I let out a relieved breath. I won the bid.

Sienna kept her expression blank. She walked off the stage on quivering legs, blood staining her skin as she was led like an animal toward me.

The armed guard gripped her forearm so hard I could see it turning an ugly red from here.

I took a threatening step forward when a hand landed on me and warned, “Don’t.”

It was a single word by the only man who I trusted here—Alexei Nikolaev who was here with Kingston Ashford—but fuck it was hard to do nothing and watch someone manhandle my daughter who looked scared out of her mind.

My hand rested on my weapon, ready to fight if need be, as she was shuffled to me. She shuddered, and as she neared, I surveyed the state of her.

Her chest rose and fell, her breathing erratic. There was a cut on her lip, bruises in the shape of fingers on her neck.

Those motherfuckers.

“Here’s your bitch,” the armed guard spat.

I caught my daughter as she stumbled forward, her eyes locked on me.

Her bottom lip quivered. She licked her lip, then winced, probably from the pain that cut caused.