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He leads us to a round table with several men already clustered around it. People mill about, chatting as if this is a fancy charity event, just waiting to bid on ridiculous items none of them need. In essence, that's still true, except they'll be fighting over people as if they're possessions ripe for the picking.
Byron introduces me to the men around us as we settle in our chairs, but I immediately forget their names. I should make more of an effort to learn who is involved. The way Byron is conversing makes me think he's brought them all on, introducing them to a world I wish didn't exist. I assume they are in the same boat as me, not high enough on the ladder to warrant a full invitation to the Auction.
"Cruz here cleaned me out the other day," Byron says with a grin. "Had to see what else he was made of."
"What happened to your hand, Byron? You choose the wrong girl to fuck with and piss off her handler?" The man to my right chuckles, gesturing with his glass to the bandage.
Byron's eyes tighten the slightest bit. "Just a little accident. Nothing to worry about."
He meets my gaze, and I nod with a smirk. He's set the tone for the reasons he invited me, making it clear he wants no one to know what really happened in the alley. I didn't have any intention of revealing his secret, but at least I have a little something to hold over him.
"Drink, sir?" a woman says from beside my elbow.
Glancing up, I freeze, caught in her dark brown eyes. All the others I've seen caught in the Guild's clutches have a deadness in their gazes. Hers are clear—vibrant—with an edge of defiance. Maybe she's new, not yet exposed to the horrors within these walls.
Clearing my throat, I curl my hand into a fist. "Bourbon on the rocks."
She nods sharply before spinning around in impossibly high heels. Her hips sway along with her long brown hair as she navigates her way to the bar. I track her as she expertly avoids all the questing hands reaching out for her. One man even slaps another's in his quest to snag her. He shakes his head at the younger man, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.
"Some of the women are spoken for already, though they aren't usually put on the floor," Byron murmurs, following my gaze.
"How do we know who we can touch, then?"
He waves away my words. "Like I said, they aren't put on the floor. That one,though, is untouchable, and the others find out pretty quickly if they cross the line."
"Then why is she working? And why is she off limits?"
Her eyes meet mine as she makes her way back with my drink in hand.
"Works for the big boss and he throws her to the wolves sometimes just to see her squirm is my guess. Believe me, he'll never give her up. Although, with the way she acts, I doubt he's tasted her."
"What do you mean?"
He grins, then licks his lips, and my gut tightens. "Because she's still unbroken."
The lights dim just as she reaches me, setting my drink on the table. The man next to me, who can't be much older than I am, grabs a handful of her ass. He must not have heard Byron’s warning. She jolts upright, alarm flashing across her face. He latches onto her wrist as she tries to twist away.
Slipping my switchblade from my pocket, I flick it open before leaning into his space, my shoulder brushing her stomach. He doesn’t notice the knife until it rests against his crotch, and he stiffens, still gripping her.
"I suggest you let her go before I take something precious to you," I murmur.
"What the hell? These bitches are free game, so back the fuck off," he snarls, jerking back, but there's nowhere for him to go.
"This one’s mine. I won't tell you again." Digging the tip into the fabric of his pants, he sucks in a breath and releases her.
She stares at me for a full ten seconds, but I don't take my eyes off him. Her body trembles and she steps away. Leaning back, I put my knife away, glancing at her from the corner of my eye. I smirk as she whips around. It's all for show, but apparently it works. A chuckle escapes Byron, and he leans into my space.
"I don't know if you just saved him or fucked yourself, but good luck either way."
A lilting sound fills the space, drowning out whatever else he wants to say. I pay more attention to the where the woman has retreated than the people dancing on stage.
Men line the front, scanning the crowd, but it's more subdued than the gambling den from a few nights ago. No one is hollering at them. None of them jump onto the stage. All are seated, calmly watching the show.
It's subtle, the progression from them observing to something more. The dancers on stage are a mix of men and women, different shapes and sizes, all scantily clad. They start to move, some of them more fluid than others. From my position, I spot a man tucked away on the edge of the stage behind the curtain with something in his hands.
It's then that I notice the collars around the dancer’s necks. When a short, blonde woman stumbles back toward the curtain, fear radiating from her body, the guard presses the button. She convulses, almost crashing to her knees, but somehow stays upright, using the pole to steady herself. She goes back to dancing, although she's still subdued, eyes darting to the guard every few seconds. Flexing my fingers, I glance over the crowd, trying to push away the unease riding me.
One man lifts his hand and a guard hustles over, leaning to hear what he wants. The guard casually lopes back to the stage, gesturing to a tall, raven-haired woman whose face falls the slightest bit. It hits me that they're actually handlers, keeping the dancing men and women in line. She wobbles on her heels, almost crashing to the ground before righting herself and exiting through the back curtains. When I look back, the man is weaving his way through the tables.
