#dark rumlow

Sasha began to stir about an hour later, as the large windows surrendered to the unyielding rays streaming in through them.

"Good morning," Grace attempted to mask her rising anxiety while sipping her cup of tea. She opted out of coffee this morning, feeling that caffeine was unnecessary. No, what she truly needed was to find her calm.

"Good morning, Grace," Sasha smiled brightly. "Today is the day," she continued, examining the items spread out before her. "Today is the day we’ll finally embrace life," she added, allowing the dress to flow over her figure, accentuating every curve. "This will surely do the trick," she declared, twirling around to demonstrate to Grace that this was indeed a joyful day. 

"Mmmhm," Grace murmured, gazing out the window. Central Park was already alive with activity, and for a brief moment, she couldn't help but wonder what her life might be like if she were one of them; those down below, with genuine jobs and real families. The ones who didn’t have to face the grim reality of being sold at an underground auction. The ones blissfully unaware of the auction happening right beneath their noses.

"What’s wrong?" Sasha inquired as she settled down next to her. "Aren’t you feeling happy?" she pressed on.

"I..." Grace began. Was she truly happy? The thought of not having to spend another night hiding in parking garages, using cardboard as a makeshift mattress, was certainly appealing. Yet, there was the uncertainty. The uncertainty of who would purchase her. She had no idea if the buyer was even in the same country. And while her life was bound to change after today, she felt unprepared for a transformation that might take her far from home. "It’s terrifying not knowing who will buy me, or where I might end up," she finally admitted. That felt more manageable than revealing every single fear she harbored.

Sasha regarded her intently. "You’ve spent a decade on the streets, never knowing where your next meal will come from," she stated, her voice filled with resolve. "This is a positive step," she concluded.

"Yeah," Grace sighed, placing her cup down. At least she could cling to the hope that it would turn out well. From her time on the streets, she knew that the extremely wealthy, or even worse, those involved in the mafia or other criminal enterprises, were often the most merciless.

She opened her mouth to speak, but a knock on the door interrupted her, and the same man from the previous night announced that breakfast was ready, motioning for them to follow him.

"Leave your belongings behind," he instructed. "You’ll be taken care of," he added as he led them down the hallway.

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The breakfast hall is breathtaking; the buffet was something Grace had only witnessed in films. It was brimming with a variety of foods she had never encountered before. From exotic fruits to smoked salmon and lobster, everything was arranged beautifully. The vibrant colors and enticing aromas made her stomach rumble with eagerness.

"Welcome!" A voice calls out from a podium across the room. "Please take a seat," the voice adds.

Once everyone has settled in, Sasha nudges Grace. "That’s Feldbank," she whispers, gesturing towards the slightly older man at the podium. "The Feldbank," she elaborates, her admiration evident in her tone.

Grace was puzzled. How could Sasha be so untroubled by this, without a hint of fear or doubt? After tonight, everything felt uncertain. The fact that someone could remain completely unafraid was a riddle to her. 

"I trust everyone had a restful night and found your accommodations to your liking," Feldbank speaks in a soothing voice. While he appears to show them respect, Grace is skeptical about his true feelings. "Feel free to indulge in a complimentary breakfast as I hand over the microphone to my lovely wife," he adds.

A breathtaking blonde glides onto the stage, adorned in a striking red gown and exquisite jewelry, her figure nothing short of flawless. Grace observes her closely, noting that she can't be much older than Grace herself, perhaps around 26 to 30. What could she possibly see in a man like Feldbank? Is this the path her life is destined to take? Will she too be purchased by some wealthy older man? Oh, she desperately wishes to avoid that fate. Please, she silently pleads, don’t let someone like Feldbank claim me.

"Ladies," the blonde exclaims with a bright smile. "Your gift bags await you on the tables by the entrance; inside, you'll discover all the essentials for your new journey," she adds with a warm grin. "But before that... let's enjoy some food," she finishes, pointing to the delightful spread of dishes laid out at the buffet.

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Brock stuffed the final bundle of $100 bills into his well-worn light brown duffle bag. $1.5 million should suffice. At least, that was his hope. He wasn’t looking for just anyone; he yearned for that youthful, innocent-looking one, a quality he knew many shared a fondness for. If he played his cards right, he could be leaving the Feldbanks tonight with that ideal prize in hand.

He picked up a knife, flipping it deftly in his hand before sliding it into the hidden holster inside his right boot. Next, he grabbed his firearm, a brand new Glock, ejected the magazine to ensure it was fully loaded and ready for action. After pushing the magazine back in, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans at the back, covering it with his black t-shirt. Finally, he slipped his arms into his black leather jacket, ensuring the Glock remained secure and out of sight. 

"Jack, fetch the car," he said, glancing at the man by the door. The other man, a tall and intimidating presence with his arms folded across his chest, nodded before stepping outside.

Jack Rollins was Brock's right-hand man, responsible for tidying up any mess or disorder Brock caused, and also served as his driver when necessary. Just like tonight. Brock was aware that Jack was both discreet and effective. He preferred to explore his desires in the back seat with Jack behind the wheel, rather than with some unfamiliar driver. The things he wanted to do weren't exactly everyone's idea of fun; or whatever the hell it was called. 

The brick house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, roughly an hour away from the city. Brock cherished his solitude. He had longed for this house ever since he first set eyes on it. At that time, it was owned by Ray Kinkaid, a well-known criminal; he thought he could just stroll into Brock's territory, into Hades' domain, and take control. What a pathetic loser. After enduring hours of intense torture, Brock had compelled him to transfer ownership of the house to him, just before he dealt with him permanently. Jack then took care of the body, and they never spoke of it again. Brock never inquired about the fate of the bodies; as long as they were permanently gone and nothing could link back to him, he was indifferent to their final resting place. And now, this grand house was rightfully his. 

As Brock climbed into the car, he ensured that every camera surrounding the house was streaming its feed to his phone, and that all the motion detectors were activated. He doubted anyone would have the audacity to challenge him on his own turf, yet in his line of work, one could never be too cautious. With a decisive nod towards Jack, he indicated it was time to hit the road. 

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Grace felt like an object under Feldbank's scrutiny. The forty or so girls stood in a line, side by side, as Feldbank paced before them, examining each one closely. Some of the girls were directed to form another line on the opposite side of the room. Grace couldn't shake the thought of whether this was a positive development... or a negative one.

When Feldbank positioned himself in front of her, she compelled herself to meet his gaze. He wasn't particularly attractive, with his grayish hair, wrinkled face, and bushy gray eyebrows that seemed to have outgrown their purpose long ago. The only redeeming quality he possessed was his height. Yet, Grace had learned that in New York, wealth could afford you far more than mere respect.

"You, baby doll," he said to her, a smile playing on his lips. "Over there," he directed, gesturing towards the other line.

Without a moment's hesitation, she crossed the floor and took her place in the new line. She hoped that his smile and the 'baby doll' remark indicated she had some sort of advantage. It felt like a lifeline she could cling to, even though she had no idea where it might lead her.

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"Five hundred fucking dollars?" Brock spits the words at the young man at the door, who looks like he just graduated high school. What the fuck is a kid like him doing in a place like this? It's clearly way past his bedtime, and more importantly, he has no clue how to interact with someone like Brock.

The young man gulps nervously before he manages to regain his composure. "T...This is a prestigious auction house, Sir," he tells Brock.

Brock keeps his gaze fixed on the guy, intimidating him with his stare as he counts out $500. When he hands the cash over, he grips it tightly for a moment, hissing, "You better have some good ass for me," before finally releasing it and stepping inside.

He halts in the auction hall, right at the back. Absorbing the scene laid out before him. Sofas are cleverly arranged to ensure buyers have an unobstructed view of the goods while relishing all the luxuries the Feldbank provided. Brock slowly moistened his lips, already aware that this evening would be anything but ordinary.

He tossed his bag onto one of the sofas in the rear, determined not to share his spot with anyone. By positioning himself at the back, he could evaluate not just the goods, but also his rivals. A lesson he had learned long ago was that if you truly desired something, you kept it to yourself and waited until the very last moment to act. That was exactly his strategy for tonight. Remaining as inconspicuous as possible until the final moment. 

Settling onto the sofa, he draped one arm over its back while the other rested on the armrest.  

"Champagne, Sir?" A voice called out from above him.  

Raising his eyes, he saw a sharply dressed man holding a tray filled with flutes. Brock stared at the tray a moment longer than necessary. "Don’t you have anything decent to drink?" It was more of a statement than a question. How the hell was he supposed to evaluate the offerings with that swill? In a posh place like this, there had to be some quality whiskey available too.  

The man with the tray merely snapped his fingers in the air. "Pedro," he said, then added, "Whiskey for the gentleman in the back," before moving to the front, where his tray was quickly emptied.  

Brock exhaled sharply. Fuck, with those champagne-sipping losers up front, this night would be a breeze, perhaps even too simple. But conserving his energy might be wise. After all, he needed to train her, instruct her on proper behavior, and most importantly, ensure she made him look good. He took pride in being the best, and that was also his aim with his slave. He wanted her to outshine both Carmen and Lia. Yes, that would be incredible. To have both Bucky and Jonas commend his slave for her performance. Fuck.  

A glass was set on the table beside him, and the liquid gold was poured into it. "Leave the bottle," Brock commanded, just as Mr. Feldbank himself stepped onto the stage to kick off the night’s auction.

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As the auction slowly approached its conclusion, Brock found his patience wearing thin. He watched countless individuals depart with girls who, in his opinion, fell significantly short of his standards. Yet, as the end drew nearer, the girls seemed to improve. Still, he was on the hunt for that ideal one. The girl he could shape into his desires, but also the one who would plead, weep, and resist. That flawless creature who warranted both severe discipline and tender aftercare. Just the thought of what he wished to do to her made him wet his lips. 

As he poured another shot of whiskey into his glass, he raised it to his lips, hoping to wash away his frustration, but suddenly he froze. His gaze was locked onto the stage as he gradually lowered his drink. That one. She was the one he desired. Her flawless figure, exquisite breasts, with nipples already visible beneath the sheer fabric of her dress. The dark hair that beautifully framed her face. And those eyes, struggling to conceal any fear or unease she might be experiencing. He gulped, taking her in completely. She was simply perfect for his use. 

Observing the bids placed by the men at the front, he quickly understood that this auction would not be inexpensive. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one drawn to the seemingly innocent items. The bidding had already reached $500,000, but the pace was beginning to wane. A man raised his hand, declaring, "620," with a self-assuredness that made Brock grin. Whoever this individual was, he had no clue about the formidable opponent he faced, nor did he understand the lengths Hades would go to secure his desires. Brock doubted the man had much leverage, but just to be cautious, he calculated in his mind and then gradually stood up. "One million," he announced, his voice and confidence unmistakably clear.

If anyone dared to surpass his bid, he would eliminate them, ensuring she left with him. That was how deeply he desired her. There was absolutely no way he would exit this venue without taking her with him.

Feldbank paused, directing his gaze at Brock. Everyone turned to him, the silence in the room palpable, so quiet that one could almost hear a feather fall. "Sold!" Feldbank finally proclaimed. "Payments are processed in the office, down the hall and to your right," he then directed Brock.

Brock seized his bag, thoroughly pleased with how the evening was unfolding.

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