The Bloodmoon Claim

Chapter Four

Maya’s POV:



I barely recognize the girl staring back at me.

The mirror in front of me is tall, cracked along one edge. The harsh white light above it exposes every bruise, every cut, every scratch on my face. My damp hair hangs in tangled strands around my shoulders. Behind me, two women move efficiently, impatiently.

One of them yanks a brush through my hair.

I hiss softly, teeth clenched.

“Hold still,” Jessica snaps.

The dark-haired woman, Kiera, stands beside the counter, rifling through a box of cosmetics. Neither looks at me as if I were human, more like a problem to be solved.

Jessica drags the brush through my hair again, harder this time.

“You’d think they’d bring them in cleaner,” she mutters.

“They’re animals half the time,” Kiera replies flatly.

I look into the mirror again. The left side of my face throbs. The dark bruise beneath my eye spreads like spilled ink across my skin. Cole’s blows on my body linger in my mind. My skin still stings where he hit me, warm blood drying in my hair.

Kiera steps forward, roughly pressing my chin upward.

“Look at that,” she says flatly, pressing her finger against the swollen cut along my cheekbone.

Pain shoots through me. I jerk slightly, instinctively. I want to scream. I want to tell her to f**k off. I just stay silent.

Kiera tightens her grip.

“Stop moving,” she says. Her nail presses against the wound again, inspecting it like damaged merchandise.

I glare at my reflection. “If you’re going to treat me like an object, at least stop pretending you’re helping.”

Jessica snorts softly behind me. “You won’t be talking much longer tonight.”

Kiera picks up a sponge soaked in thick makeup and begins dabbing the bruise.

“Hold still,” she repeats.

“You should have behaved,” Jessica adds casually. “Cole doesn’t like trouble.”

“I don’t care what he likes,” I mutter.

“Well, you should,” Kiera replies calmly. “He decides how badly you get punished.”

The door opens.

Everything freezes.

Cole steps inside, his blonde hair catching the light, his cold blue eyes scanning the room before settling on me.

Jessica steps aside immediately.

“She’s ready, Master Cole,” she says.

Cole approaches without a word. I force myself not to shrink back as he stops behind me. His gaze meets mine in the mirror. It does not feel like looking into someone’s eyes, but like being measured, assessed, and cataloged.

Then he pulls something from his pocket: a ball gag, with a black leather strap and a silver buckle.

“No,” I begin to protest, but he shoves it between my teeth.

The leather strap tightens behind my head, forcing the rubber ball deep between my jaws. Humiliation burns through my chest. He cups my jaw in his hand, forcing me to turn my head to meet his gaze.

Cole tilts his head slightly as he studies me. Then he slaps my face lightly, almost playfully.

“Better,” he chuckles.

Then his hand shoots forward, fingers tangled in my hair. He yanks hard.

Pain explodes across my scalp as he forces me to stand.

“Move.”

The chains clank loudly as he drags me toward the door. We move down a dim hallway. My bare feet scrape against the floor as I stumble to keep up. Cole stops at another door and shoves it open. The room inside is completely dark. Cold air brushes against my damp skin. Cole pulls another strip of fabric from his pocket. Before I can react, he ties it tightly over my eyes. Darkness swallows me.

“Stay here,” Cole says calmly. “Wait until you’re called.”

The door shuts behind him.

I stand alone. Blindfolded. Chained. Gagged.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I force myself to breathe slowly through my nose. The room smells faintly of dust and old wood.

Time stretches painfully.

Then voices begin to echo from somewhere beyond the walls. A woman’s voice. Smooth. Confident. Commanding.

“Gentlemen, I thank you for your patience.”

I freeze.

“Tonight we have several exquisite bodies available for purchase.”

I feel a chill crawling down my spine.

Bodies.

“Let us begin.”

Applause follows.

My stomach twists violently.

An auction.

The realization hits me like a blow. Footsteps approach. The door bursts open. Hands grab my arm and drag me forward. I stumble, the chains slowing my steps.

Then suddenly, the blindfold is ripped away.

Blinding white light explodes into my eyes. For a moment, I see nothing but brightness.

Then shapes begin to form.

I see rows of seats, a stage beneath my feet, and dozens of men staring at me.

Their suits are expensive. Their watches gleam under the lights.

Every single one of them looks powerful, wealthy, and important. My heart hammers violently in my chest. They are all watching me, like I am something to be bought.

A smooth voice carries across the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen… your patience is appreciated.”

I turn slightly toward the sound.

At the far side of the stage stands a tall woman dressed in deep crimson.

Her posture is elegant.

I don’t know her. But I understand instantly that she commands this room. This woman radiates authority.

“Lot number seven,” the woman says loudly, almost excited.

The spotlight above shines brightly in my face, making it impossible to hide.

“Eighteen years old,” she continues. “Strong, healthy, and clearly spirited.”

A ripple of quiet laughter moves through the crowd.

She glances toward me briefly before addressing the audience again.

“And for those of you who value rarity…” she says calmly, “our physicians have confirmed that she is untouched.”

A murmur spreads through the room.

Interested voices. Low whistles.

“Yes, gentlemen,” she says. “A true virgin.”

The word echoes through my ears like thunder.

My stomach drops.

Every single man in the room leans forward slightly.

She lifts one elegant hand.

“Let us begin the bidding.”

I hear voices rising immediately. Numbers are called out. The room comes alive with competition.

And I realize, with horrifying clarity, the men in front of me aren’t simply watching.

They are bidding.

For me.