Auctioned heart

Chapter2

I sit on the edge of a leather armchair, still in the dress from the auction. My hair has come loose from the tight knot Genevieve hurriedly put it in, and my hands throb from how tightly I held them in a fist all night.

I still do not understand what is happening, other than the fact that I have been sold to a stranger who looks eerily familiar.

I should run, or scream. But instead, I just sit here and stare.

Those blue eyes.

That face.

They’ve been haunting my memory since the moment he raised his hands in the dark corner of the gallery, offering his bid.

The room breathes when he moves away, bar hidden in one corner of his insanely huge penthouse, dark bannisters and furniture covering every surface. He brings over two glasses with him and stretches one out to me. I should run, or scream. But instead, I just sit here and stare.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t look like the type to be asked questions.

“Scotch.”

“I don’t drink,” I mutter, wrapping my hands around my frame.

“I don’t care.”

I stare at the glass still in his hands, then take it. I have had a long day. Might as well have a drink. I bring the rim of the glass to my lips, watching from underneath my lashes as he moves to the couch opposite me, plopping into it.

Sliding his glass onto the coffee table, his long fingers work swiftly, flicking open the first two buttons of his shirt. My eyes follow every action, taking a peek at the ink fighting to be seen on one side of his neck. It crawls up his collarbone and disappears beneath the silk of his shirt before I can make out what it is.

But for some weird reason, I am certain it is a raven nestled in the middle of a huge tree. The image is so vivid in my mind that it leaves me taking a second look at his shirt. If Damian notices anything, he gives nothing away as his eyes focus on the drink in his hand, as if it is the most interesting sight in the room.

It probably is.

Genevieve was right. No one in their right senses will buy me for that much.

So why did he?

My lips tilt the glass back, and my throat burns the second the scotch hits. My face contorts into a wince. It burns my eyes, and I close them for a few seconds. When I pull them open again, I meet him watching me, his glass back in his hands, his gaze dark.

“It’s not supposed to go down easy,” he drawls, still staring at me. Under the intensity of his gaze, I suddenly forget how to breathe. “Scotch is like raising a child. You don’t rush it, Bella. You let it grow.”

“You didn’t buy me to talk about scotch.”

I should probably consider staying quiet, with the way he arches his brow and the muscle that jerks in his jaw each time I say something out of line. But I must have been cursed in my past life to always get on people’s nerves.

Because there is no way I am allowing a stranger to do what he pleases to me. f**k Genevieve and the auction.

“I need to go home. Now.”

“You are angry,” he murmurs, his hands still splayed on his glass, as he lowers himself further into the couch.

“No.” I meet his eyes. “I am not angry. I am beyond angry. I have just been put up for sale by a boss who apparently does not like me and bought by a stranger who is in no way better than she is.”

“You let them auction you,” he says in that eerily calm tone.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice, Bella. You just didn’t like yours.”

He stops talking, and I take another sip. This time, the burn is easier to handle. Maybe I even like it.

“You have something to ask me.”

“Why me?” I whisper.

Damian leans forward, a hand raking through his tousled hair before bringing it down to his drink. “You walked into my life once, remember? Then disappeared. I was curious.”

I search his face for any sign that he might be making this up. “We’ve met before?”

Damian doesn’t answer, and something inside me snaps. Of course, he is pulling my legs. This is all some game to him. He is probably gloating in his head for winning the stupid game he was playing with Genevieve.

But what I won’t allow is to let him drag me into the middle of all of that.

I shoot to my feet, sliding the glass onto the coffee table next to us. “I am not doing this, Mr. Blackwood. You don’t get to use me as collateral damage. Whatever game you and my boss are playing, just leave me out of it.”

“You think this is a game?” he says quietly, scoffing. “We already played this once, Bella. It is exhausting having to do it a second time.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

But I do. For some weird reason, I do. As much as I hate to admit it to myself, Damian does look familiar. And I hate that I can’t place it.

He gets on his feet too, covering the space between us in a few seconds. My pulse races and my throat feels dry. Suddenly, my phone buzzes.

The sound slices through the air, and I am grateful for the interruption. Moving towards my purse lying forgotten on the couch, I retrieve it, my eyes scanning the unknown number blinking back at me.

There is a message.

Hitting the icon open, I swallow when I take in the words.

“He is not who you think he is. Ask him about the accident.”

I freeze.

Damian sees the look on my face, and he backs up a little. “Is something wrong?”

I look up at him, into those eyes I swear I have seen before. A tiny whisper leaves my lips.

“What accident?”