Twelve million. Fifteen.
Finally, it’s only Hunter and a silver fox in the front row, going paddle for paddle. The tension is suffocating.
Hunter’s voice, clear and cold as ice: “Twenty million.”
The silver fox hesitates, his blue eyes flashing, then sets his paddle down.
The room is dead silent, and the gavel falls: “Sold.”
The screen blinks off, and for a moment I’m left, bent and exposed, my body still the center of the world as my breasts dangle, my cunt glistening.
Quickly, I stand, gathering what’s left of my dignity, and look out over the room. The faces are a blur, except for one.
Hunter.
The massive man stands, and the crowd parts for him. His eyes never leave me as he walks to the stage, takes my hand, and pulls me into his arms.
There’s applause, polite and perfunctory, but the only thing I hear is his breathing, raspy and quick, as if he’s trying not to devour me on the spot.
He leans in, mouth to my ear, and says, “You’re mine now.”
A shiver runs through me—part terror, part triumph.
I don’t know what comes next.
But for the first time since waking up in this strange, beautiful new world, I’m exactly where I want to be.
Naked, wanted, and claimed.
9
CHAPTER 9 – PENTHOUSE SHENANIGANS
HUNTER
Iwatch her step through the penthouse door, wrapped in a dark fur coat. There’s an art to moments like this: the perfect timing of a slow reveal, the way a beautiful woman looks when she’s introduced to something new. The elevator doors hush closed behind us, sealing us off from the world, and Daisy stares at the cathedral-high ceilings, the stretch of cream-and-steel living room, the slabs of glass that turn the city outside into a blue electric aquarium.
“Wow,” she whispers, blue eyes wide and innocent. Her voice is soft, weightless, and I can’t help thinking it belongs to a much younger girl. “Is this—did we just—are we at your apartment?”
“Penthouse,” I correct, but soft. “Downtown Minneapolis. Thirty-eighth floor. Welcome.”
Her smile is pure sunshine. “It’s so open.” She lifts both arms and twirls, slow, hair fanning out behind her in a golden spiral. The light hits her from three sides and she glows, a beacon of innocence in the middle of my shark-tank life.
I let Daisy look. She walks the main room—living area, dining platform, glass walls everywhere, all furniture so minimalist they aren’t much more than geometric shapes. She leans over the couch and gasps at the view: the city lit up and blinking, a sprawl of jewel tones against night sky.
“Wow,” she whispers again, pressing her palm to the window. “I feel like I’m floating.”
I come up behind her, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo, a sweet vanilla scent mixed with a hint of female musk. “You’ll get used to it,” I say, but she’s not listening.
Daisy’s looking down, watching cars move through the city like bugs, her own reflection a faint white shadow on the glass.
After a while, she turns to me, hands behind her back, big blue eyes shining. “Why didn’t we stay at Sanctum?” she asks. “Don’t you keep a suite there long-term?”
There are a dozen reasons, but they’re hard for me to articulate. “You belong here, Daisy, in my home,” I reply, and the words taste almost holy on my tongue, as if by saying them I make it true. “I don’t know why, but you belong here, with me.”
She looks at me for a long time, searching for a joke, or a catch. But I mean it.
The silence gets heavy, so I shift gears. “You want a tour?”