After His Luna Sold Me at Auction

The collar burns at 9:47 on a Thursday night.

Silver against my throat. The metal sears into the scar tissue already there—Carmen's gift from a decade ago, the suppression device she laced with wolfsbane to kill what should have awakened at sixteen. This new collar is cruder. Cheaper. It smells like rust and fear.

The auction stage is plywood over concrete. Floodlights blind me from three angles. I count twelve Alphas in the front rows, another eight standing along the back wall. All male. All watching me like I'm meat on a hook.

The auctioneer's hand clamps my jaw. His fingers dig into the hinge where bone meets muscle. He yanks my face toward the bidders.

"Lot seventeen," he announces. "Wolfless. No pack affiliation. Clean bloodwork. Bidding starts at five thousand."

A hand goes up in the second row. Then another.

I bite through my own lip. Hard. Blood floods my mouth—hot, copper, mine. I turn my head just enough to catch the auctioneer's eye, then spit directly into his face.

The room goes silent.

Red drips down his cheek. He stares at me for one long second. Then his fist catches my temple and I'm on my knees, ears ringing, vision sparking white at the edges.

Stay down, something whispers in the back of my head. Play dead. Survive.

I don't.

I lift my chin. Meet his eyes. Let him see exactly how much I'm not afraid of him.

His hand rises again—

The east wall explodes.

Not a door kicked open. Not a window shattered. The entire concrete wall detonates inward in a spray of dust and rebar, and something massive steps through the smoke.

Half-shifted. Lycan form. Golden eyes blazing in a face that's more wolf than man.

The aura hits first.

Every wolf in the room drops. Knees slam into concrete. Heads bow. I feel the pressure—a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders, my spine—but I'm already on my knees, already bleeding, and somehow that makes it easier to hold his gaze.

He crosses the room in four strides. Doesn't look at the Alphas flattened against their chairs. Doesn't acknowledge the auctioneer scrambling backward. Just moves with the kind of certainty that comes from never having been told no.

His boot comes down on the rogue leader's throat. The man who organized this auction, who dragged me here in chains, who was about to sell me to the highest bidder—pinned under one Lycan's heel like an insect.

"She's mine," the Lycan says.

His voice is rough. Low. It carries across the hall without rising in volume.

He pulls something from his jacket—a small carved token, bone-white, marked with symbols I don't recognize—and drops it onto the stage beside my knees.

"Blood-oath marker," he continues. "Lycan law. This woman is my creditor. Any wolf who touches her answers to me."

No one moves.

No one breathes.

He steps over the rogue leader's body and crouches in front of me. Up close, I can see the scars on his chest through the torn shirt—old burns, wolfsbane damage, the kind that should have killed him. His eyes are molten gold. Lycan eyes. Royal bloodline.

He reaches for the collar.

I flinch. Can't help it.

His hand pauses. Then, very slowly, he wraps his fingers around the silver and pulls. The metal groans. Snaps. Falls away in two pieces.

I gasp. The relief is immediate and dizzying—air floods my lungs, my throat stops burning, and for the first time in hours I can breathe without tasting blood.

He catches me before I collapse.

One arm under my knees. One behind my shoulders. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, and I'm too disoriented to fight, too exhausted to do anything but turn my face into his chest and—

Scent.

Iron and pine smoke.

It hits me like a fist to the sternum. Something inside my chest—something that's been dead and silent for a decade—stirs. Faint. Barely there. Like a heartbeat I don't recognize.

What—

"Burn it," the Lycan says over his shoulder.

I don't see who he's talking to. Don't see what happens next. Because he's already moving, carrying me toward the hole in the wall, and behind us I hear the first crackle of flames catching.

The night air is cold. Clean. I pull it into my lungs and taste freedom for the first time in three days.

He doesn't put me down until we're outside the building. Even then, he sets me on my feet carefully, one hand steadying my elbow until he's sure I won't fall.

I look up at him. He's fully shifted back now—human form, though the golden eyes remain. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Scars visible along his collarbone.

"Who are you?" I ask.

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile.

"Elias Creed," he says. "Lycan Prince. And you, little creditor, are coming with me."

Behind us, the auction house collapses in a roar of fire and falling timber.

I don't look back.