I am standing in the doorway of a room; the door is ajar. I take a deep breath and enter. The room seems to swallow every tiny sound like a well-fed beast.
I look around at shadows draped over every surface, black curtains, and a low four-poster bed with black sheets. A single lamp casts a faint glow on the black and shiny furniture. When sunlight filters through the curtains, the angled wooden floor makes my silhouette feel like a ghost.
A wall clock is hanging right above the bed; it's long dead. My eyes widen and hands freeze when I look at the stopped time; it's 4:15 am. I remember the exact moment when the auctioneer slammed his hammer down, declaring me sold.
That final thud still echoes in my ears like a death knell. The memory still feels like a bruise under my skin.
My eyes fall on a table in the center of the room. A chessboard. A perfectly and freshly arranged board. Two black chairs are tucked under the table. I nod and tighten my fists because whoever bought me has researched me. But why? I have yet to know the answer.
Not a single opponent has ever outplayed me since I was sixteen. Someone is not only hunting for beauty. The scent of old books, smoke, and leather hangs in the air. A dark silence is pressing against me like a second skin until I hear the sound of approaching footsteps.
Someone has entered the room and is standing behind me, but at a distance. I only feel a shift in pressure. His bold, masculine, and wicked scent hit me hard. A blend of smoky vetiver and burnt amber with a hint of leather and spice. I closed my eyes and remained standing.
Waiting.
A sentence slices a thick silence.
"I thought you'd try to run away."
It's the same lethal voice that feels like a weapon, low and commanding, the kind that people respond to without thinking...like a reflex. I exhale and turn around slowly. "I wanted to see what kind of monster life has thrown at me."
He is tall, about 6'2", built like an elegant threat, with broad shoulders beneath his buttoned-down shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up to his forearms. He is maybe in his early forties; I am not sure. His skin is olive, his eyes are blue, and he has made a bun of his sleek dark hair at the back of his head.
"The kind who likes to watch what you'll do when you're unguarded."
He is holding a black folder loosely in one hand and reading it. He is cold, dominant, and impossibly composed. Authority and violence vibrate in the air around him. He doesn't need to raise his voice.
He is not even looking at me when he gestures with his hand toward a chair. "Let's see if you are worth buying."
I raise my brow with amusement. "Then I'll be free? Or will this victory only confirm my slavery to you?"
He snaps shut the folder in his hand. The sound was precise and final. He is still not looking at me. I think this is his game. "No one talks here." He says simply.
It feels like fire is slowly catching dry leaves. My pulse is tapping against my throat, but I keep my spine straight and chin high. "If you wished to have a doll for this place," I shrug. "You overpaid for me."
My dare has earned me his gaze at last. He finally lifts his ocean blue eyes to meet mine, and I nearly take a step back. His eyes just don't see, but measure and dissect. He has a strategist's gaze but a killer's calm in them.
He steps into my space, not touching me, not breathing a word, just invading the silence between us like a scalpel slicing it in two. I don't move. I am not willing to show him any kind of weakness of mine.
I feel like he passes me, deliberately slow, and pulls out the chair with a scrape on the uneven but shiny floor. He sits, one leg crossing over the other, hands steepling in front of the chessboard like a man welcoming confession.
"I collect puzzles, not toys."
Anger flares in my chest, sharp and swift. I cross the room in four quick strides and drop into the opposite chair, spine rigid, eyes locked to him. I don't care if his posture radiates complete control.
I can feel it; he is used to breaking people, laced in his calculated and sharp words, and every gesture he doesn't make. But the problem is, I am not used to being broken. I reach out and move my pawn forward. "Your move." I challenge him with my tone.
He is not flinching. Not blinking. He lifts his knight and places it down like he already knows how the game will end. I hate his calm. Our eyes meet, and there is no anger there, but it feels like he is already six layers beneath my skin.
I counter his move using my bishop. "Is your endgame stripping me down move by move until I am easier to control?"
He leans back, looking at the board. "Control isn't interesting. But unraveling?" he slowly nods. "That's art."
My pulse kicks. That word shouldn't have sounded sensual. But it did.
"You think I am going to unravel." I look at him.
"You have already unraveled by starting with the king's pawn." He glides his bishop across the board and captures one of my pawns, clean, precise, and annoying as hell.
"Now, you don't know which thread to pull."
My throat is tightening. Cocky bastard. But what's worse is that he is not wrong. Not completely.
This place. This night. Him. Everything chipped away at something inside me. Even if I refuse to admit it.
Fuck! He is applying pressure with his calm and lethal moves. Trying to dominate early by removing my central control or provoking a reaction. He is being aggressive, but he is testing me.
My eyes dart at the board for a while, then I slide my knight out and land it just where it pins his damn bishop to his queen. I take a deep breath because my move is saying that I see you, and I am not playing nice anymore.
"You don't play like someone who's been bought," he nods and, staring down his bishop, moves a pawn and blocks the pin. Just clean and exact. Maintained his dominance through calm.
I look at him. "Perhaps this is because I never agreed to be sold."
A yawn escapes my mouth when I move my queen's bishop into play.
He is not moving. Just watching me with one leg stretched out, his fingers still templed beneath his chin, like he can command kingdoms without lifting a damn finger.
He finally stands. "I think we should stop here."
I blink. "Why?"
He gives the smallest shrug. "Because I don't enjoy beating someone who is half awake."
I straighten my back. "This wasn't a surrender."
"I know." He looks down at the board, then back at me. "But I prefer to win when it hurts. When you know you gave everything and it still isn't enough."
He walks towards the door. "Sleep. Next time, I want all of you."
Then he is gone.