Eighteen lashes later, Linnea lay shivering on the floor while Elowen crowed over her prize.
But Soren’s smile vanished as he snapped, “You’re just as stupid as Linnea.”
Bodyguards dragged Elowen away. Moments later, her screams echoed through the door.
...
Soren knelt beside Linnea, dressing her in a gown whose delicate lace clung painfully to her wounds.
“Soren…” she rasped. “Will you only let me go when I’m dead?”
“Dead?” He gripped her chin. “You don’t deserve it.”
Lifting her into his arms, he whispered, “You’ll enjoy tonight’s auction.”
Down the spiral staircase they went, her body trembling in his hold.
The announcer’s voice boomed: “The auction of Mr. Carrington and his wife’s belongings begins now!”
Linnea’s hands shook uncontrollably.
She shut her eyes against the pain, but the auctioneer’s voice kept cutting through her skull—over and over—reminding her that everything she’d once called her own was now on the block, parceled out by Soren for strangers to take.
“It’s painful, losing someone you love, isn’t it?”
His voice was a dull, serrated blade, carving her heart without mercy.