"Get her ready for the auction." the man's voice barked.
Rough hands grabbed her. She cried out and thrashed weakly, still groggy, still reeling from the last injection. The men paid her no mind. They dragged her into a dimly lit room where a vanity mirror with harsh lights stood against a cracked wall and a heavyset woman who tried to use makeup to cover the craters on her face stood. Clothing if it could even be called that hung from a single hook. A black slip of fabric, translucent and far too short, with matching heels placed neatly below it.
"No!" Lyra cried, pushing back as the handlers tried to undress her. "Please , please let me go!"
One of them backhanded her across the face, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to silence and let her know that they meant business.
"You don't want the buyers seeing bruises and your beautiful skin," he sneered. "Now be a good bitch."
Tears ran down her cheeks as they forced her to change, ignoring her pleas. When they were done, the woman applied makeup to her face, too much rouge on her cheeks, red paint on her lips, and heavy kohl around her eyes. She didn't even recognize her reflection. A stranger stared back at her. A stranger dressed to be sold .
Her stomach churned violently and she felt the urge to throw up right there.
They led her down a dim corridor lined with cages, other girls, some human, some not quite. Lyra caught their vacant stares, their sunken expressions. She wanted to scream.
Eventually, she was pulled behind a thick velvet curtain. On the other side, she could hear a crowd of male voices, low and leering, barking out numbers like hounds in heat. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and coin.
"Lot Number Seven," someone called. "Virgin. Certified Werewolf Of Breeding Age."
She tried to protest again. "I'm not, I'm not even a werewolf! You've got the wrong girl, you're going to look stupid when you discover you are wrong…"
The curtain was yanked aside. She was pushed forward and the spotlight hit her like a slap, blinding her and causing her to not see the hundreds of eyes locked on her.
Some were bloodshot. Others glowed faintly yellow or red. Some too wide. Hungry. Predatory. Not a single one held mercy for her.
A collective hush fell over the room.
Lyra trembled under their gaze and wished she could cover her body from their probing eyes but her arms were bound at the wrist in front of her. Chains jingled softly as she took one frightened step backward, her heels clicking on the stage floor.
"As you can see ladies and gentlemen, this werewolf is in the prime of her life and will be a great addition to your brothel, or for use as a breeder and even for those of you who go have elevated tastes and would love to include a female werewolf on your palate."
Lyra's belly dropped at the man's words. Everything that was happening was showing her that she was headed to hell unless she was able to escape.
"Start the bidding," the announcer said with glee. "We begin at five hundred thousand marks!"
Voices erupted.
"A million!"
"Two million!"
"Three point five!"
The numbers escalated quickly, a frenzy of masculine growls and roars as they fought over her with terrifying delight.
Lyra's heart thudded at the amount of money that was being called. She could not believe that they were willing to pay that amount for her, and it was a big mistake.
She screamed indignantly, "I'm not a werewolf! Please! This is a mistake!"
Her cries were drowned out by the bidding war. She tried to back away, to run, but hands grabbed her from behind and pushed her forward, forcing her to stand tall on the raised platform, like a prize mare who's value was being priced on an open market.
"Ten million!" came a voice. Cold. Deep. It cut through the room like a blade.
The crowd fell silent, nobody wanted to challenge the owner of the voice.
A figure stepped forward from the darkness. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a long black coat with silver trim. His face was partially obscured by a wide brimmed hat that revealed only a scarred jaw and glowing golden eyes. Everyone else instinctively backed away as if sensing danger.
Even the announcer swallowed hard. "Sold. To the esteemed representative of House Ironfang."
"No!" Lyra shouted as the masked man came forward.
She struggled, chains clinking, her hair wild as she fought the inevitable. The masked man said nothing. He simply took out a syringe from the inner lining of his coat, grabbed her arm, and injected her without a word.
Her screams weakened. The world tilted. The floor dissolved beneath her feet.
As she crumpled into the masked man's arms, her last thought before darkness took her was a single, echoing question.
Who… or what… had bought her?