Salvation MC: Bought by the biker

Chapter 1

-AUDREY-

"I'll free your legs now. Don't you think about running."

His foul breath reached me before his meaty hands did.

I wouldn't try. It's useless. I learned my lesson a while ago.

When they first brought us, I tried everything. I screamed, thrashed, and fought back. Once, when they were distracted by new girls, I even made it to the front door.

But each time, they dragged me back, beat me, and kept me fogged out with whatever they pumped into my system.

So I learned my lesson. Sit in my corner. Eat when they shove food at me. Move when they bark orders.

Exist until something — anything — ends this hell.

"Today is the day, ice queen." Ed, a small guy with meaty hands, yanked me upright. He's one of those men who gets off manhandling women.

My legs wobbled, muscles forgetting how to work after so long crouched down.

"Finally someone will pay good money for your frozen cunt."

He laughed at his own crude joke. The others joined in, all of them amused by the same cruelty.

They hauled me to the back where the baths were. Two older women waited.

They washed me fast and rough, dried me, combed my blond hair, dried it, and shoved me into heels and a flimsy robe that hid nothing. Not even underwear underneath.

Then they sprayed me with cheap perfume and caked me with layers and layers of makeup.

When they finished, I stared at the mirror. A pale, haunted face looked back, buried under powder and paint.

I didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t the girl who took a gap year to travel with her friends before business school. That girl was gone.

She died the night we stopped at that club, the one with the strong neon lights and the charming men who bought them drinks. I can still taste the sweetness of mine, the way it didn't sit right, how I was too drunk, too fast.

The last thing I remember was my friend Olivia whispering that she felt weird. And then the lights blurred, the music faded, and my vision smeared.

When I woke up, we were all tied together with strange girls in the back of a truck. My friends were somewhere else. I never saw them again.

"You should be glad, b***h," one of the women muttered, her voice sharp with jealousy. "Some of us didn’t even get a chance like yours. Not everyone gets sent to the auction."

They thought I was lucky. Before sending me to attend their clients, my captors had discovered I was a virgin. That made them hold back and plan to sell my V-card to the highest bidder. Suddenly, I became their "special item."

A rich psycho, probably, with a fetish for untouched girls.

Yeah, I'm really lucky. If I had any strength left, I’d laugh.

So I kept my mouth shut when they shoved me into the van.

When they dragged me through the underground parking lot, past rows of cars and oil stains.

When they pushed me down narrow corridors that smelled like smoke, sweat, and old beer.

And when someone opened a door leading to a stage, and yellow lights blinded me, I just sighed.

"It's showtime, ice queen," Ed shouted over the loud techno music. "Bring us the big bucks."

Then he was gone. A man in a brown suit motioned for me to stand at the front of the stage. I obeyed.

I didn’t care. Whoever bought me was going to get an empty shell. The life inside me had already been extinguished.

"And for the last item of the night, we have a special surprise." His voice was strong, his tone cheerful, as if he were giving a TED talk instead of selling someone’s life. "A white rose, fine and untouched. Eileen is eighteen, sweet as vanilla ice cream."

A string of lies.

My name is Audrey, and I’m twenty. I used to be brave and adventurous before they kidnapped me. But I guess an eighteen‑year‑old Eileen was more appealing.

"Let's start with ten thousand. Who wants to go first?" he called, and someone raised a hand. "Great. Do I hear twenty?"

"Here," another voice answered.

The room was packed, mostly with men. Their faces blurred, but their predatory eyes were the same.

My gut would have clenched, but numbness was my state now. It was how I chose not to feel anything anymore.

And then my skin prickled.

Somehow, under the scrutiny of all those hungry men, someone watched me from the shadows. It warmed my body with awareness, hotter than the strong beam of light directed at me.

"Fifty!" A sweaty man with a round belly spat, his dead eyes roaming over my robe.

The auction continued, voices bouncing from every corner of the dark bar.

Then a voice rumbled through the room. "Two hundred."

A ripple moved through the crowd. Some people complained, some murmured in surprise, others leaned forward to see who had spoken.

The auctioneer swallowed hard. "What?"

The bidder stepped out of the shadows. "I said two hundred," he said, voice tight with impatience.

He wore a white T‑shirt, dark jeans, and a leather jacket. Brown strands fell over his forehead, and his face carried the roughness of a few days without shaving. His dark obsidian eyes pinned me in place; his full lips were pressed thin.

"Two hundred for Mr. Blacksmith," the suit called, his voice suddenly too bright. "Do I hear two fifty?"

A sweaty bald man in the front — the one who had bid the most so far — jumped to his feet. "Three hundred."

Jesus. These men were insane. No wonder my captors were salivating when they discovered what they could make off me. I was their lottery ticket.

"Five hundred," the man with the intense eyes — Mr. Blacksmith — said through gritted teeth. "And let's wrap this up. I'll cover whatever offer you throw on the table. Eileen is mine."

The suit’s face opened in a satisfied grin. The bald man shrank into his seat, disappearing but not before muttering something nasty. I only caught the words "w***e" and "not worthy."

The suit raised his hand dramatically, milking the moment. "Going once, going twice, SOLD!" he yelled, almost shaking with satisfaction.

Mr. Blacksmith crossed the room toward the suit, his phone in his hand.

Stopping at the edge of the stage, he tapped something on the screen before saying, "Money transferred. Give me the girl."

The suit pushed me forward, and Mr. Blacksmith took off his jacket and set it over my shoulders. I was glad to be covered, even if modesty had long left my body. The jacket reached my mid‑thigh and carried the scent of leather, oak, and something fresh. It was still warm from him, almost like a blanket.

He covered me like property, not like a person. That's my state now: being a thing.

His hands adjusted the lapels before he murmured, "Easy, dove. You’re done with them now."

Two other men, strong like Mr. Blacksmith, approached and led me toward the exit. Strangely, they were built like mountains, yet they were the first people to treat me with any decency in months.

We stepped into the cold air and walked across the gravel parking lot. Twice I stumbled in the ridiculous high heels, but the men caught me.

They helped me onto the back of a large motorcycle. Several others climbed onto similar bikes before Mr. Blacksmith walked out of the bar and took the front seat.

"Hold on tight, dove. It's gonna be a hell of a ride," he said over his shoulder.

I placed my hands around his waist, trembling. He started the engine, and I dropped my face against his back, scared of my future, scared of what would be left of me.

We weren’t even half a mile away from the club when I heard the first explosion.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Mr. Blacksmith laughed. "So long, assholes."

When I looked back, flames reached high into the sky.

The club was on fire.