Ella’s POV
What exactly is this place?
Auctioning werewolf is illegal, devoid of human rights. Whether it’s the Blood Moon pack or the Blue River Tribe, such things would never occur.
The auctioneer’s smooth voice echoed continuously in the room, exciting and anticipating the audience. I strained to capture snippets of conversation, hoping to glean some clues about what was happening or why I was here.
“It’s truly a rare specimen,” whispered a distinguished middle-aged man sitting in the front row, his eyes predatory as they locked onto me. “I must add her to my collection.”
“Indeed, she would make a wonderful addition to any family,” replied another woman sharply, her features sharp, her gaze calculating. “Of course, provided the price is right.”
They each had a placard on their seats indicating their respective identities and species; the man was a vampire count antique collector, while the woman was a nightclub cat shifter.
The dwarf on the stage nodded in agreement, a smirk playing on his lips. “Rest assured, esteemed guests, this particular item comes with a hefty price tag. But for those with discerning tastes, I believe you’ll find her worth every penny.”
I felt anger at being referred to as an “item,” my stomach churning with fury. How could these people discuss me as if I were a commodity?
But before I could dwell further, the bidding officially commenced. The auctioneer skillfully called out numbers, his voice rising and falling, each bid more extravagant than the last.
“Two hundred thousand,” shouted a burly man with a thick beard, squinting at me, his placard indicating he was a bear shifter.
“Three hundred thousand,” countered a smooth-looking vampire, his pale skin almost shimmering in the dim light of the room.
Bids came swiftly and fiercely, tension palpable in the air. With each new proposal, my heart sank deeper. I realized I was completely at the mercy of these wealthy and powerful individuals.
But amidst the chaos, I found myself powerless, my throat dry, my legs bound by an iron chain.
“Five hundred thousand,” a familiar voice said, dripping with malice and contempt. I turned to see him, seated in the shadows at the back of the room, his gaze both amused and cruelly fixated on me.
It was him-the man in the pink suit with seven pets, my worst nightmare realized. As the bidding war intensified, I knew escaping his clutches would be more difficult than I had imagined.
My heart was shocked by the absurdity of it all, yet the fear enveloping me was all too real.
“Five hundred thousand, any more bids?” the host confirmed once again.
“Six hundred thousand,” another man beside the first one shouted.
“One million two hundred thousand.”
“Alright, one million two hundred thousand, any further bids?” The host paused for a moment. “Very well, congratulations to Mr. Ronald for winning auction item number 87.”
I felt helpless and enraged by the sudden turn of events. I gritted my teeth, unsure of how long I had been unconscious. Clearly, that damn black wolf hadn’t killed me; instead, it had sold my unconscious body to the organizers of this auction.
Cold sweat soaked the nearly transparent purple halter dress on my back. I forced myself to calm down, plotting my escape.
The dwarf seemed tiny against the grandeur of the golden cage. He pressed a button on a remote control, and with a mechanical hum, the cage began to descend. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched the cage ominously sway and then vanish from sight, a sense of dread washing over me.
The golden cage descended into the depths of the basement, and I found myself in a world that felt more like a fairytale workshop than reality. The basement was a massive maze constructed of steel, warm fluorescent lights illuminating the industrial space. Giant machines whirred spontaneously, cables snaked across the floor, connecting various devices in a complex network of technology.
I was amazed by this advanced technology.
Where exactly was this place?
In my twenty-three years of existence, I had never seen anything like it. It was surreal!
There were many busy staff members dressed in neat uniforms, as if this auction were just another day at the office. Some operated machines with skill, while others hurriedly performed tasks I couldn’t comprehend.
They were impeccably dressed, spirited, some even chatting casually. They look happy but indifferent, as if seeing terrified women sold into slavery was nothing out of the ordinary.
Then two burly guards approached, earpieces in place, speaking words I didn’t understand through their radios. They opened my cage and led me to a room labeled “verification.” As I crossed the threshold, a chill ran down my spine, my senses overwhelmed by the sterile atmosphere and obvious aura of authority.
“Pre-sale inspection for item number 87 begins,” said a woman in a white uniform.
Then I was placed on a bed resembling an operating table, sitting there warily, staring at the woman. The female verifier scrutinized me, her gaze icy, evaluating my worth as if assessing a commodity. I couldn’t move, only allowing her to inspect my body like merchandise, with all readings recorded into the computer.
“Heart rate normal, blood pressure normal, underweight…”
I attempted to speak again, but no sound came out. I tried sign language.
I’m not a slave, I’ve been framed, let me go.
She looked puzzled at my hands and continued her work.
Don’t touch me, trafficking humans is illegal!
I gestured again.
Then, the moment of my last remaining dignity shattered. The woman quickly produced an electronic stamp, its label glaring and detestable: “Slave.”
She approached me with the electronic stamp, and I stiffened immediately.
What was she planning? Was she going to stamp that damn “Slave” mark on me like I was a piece of merchandise?!
Sensing my hostility, she signaled to the two guards behind her, who restrained my shoulders from behind. I tensed, struggling against them with all my might, primal anger coursing through my veins.
“You have no right!” I screamed silently, “I am not your property!”
The woman took a step back, her expression a mix of surprise and pity.
“Control her,” she ordered authoritatively.
But I refused to be intimidated. I fought with all my strength against them, like a wild animal cornered.
However, the electronic stamp eventually landed on my arm, and the momentary searing sensation made me suppress a groan. Marked as a “Slave,” I felt humiliated and fiercely bit the woman’s hand.