Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Riley’s POV

I was so fucking stupid.

That’s the first thing I keep hearing in my head, over and over like a bad chant. A broken record of shame that won’t scratch itself quiet. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here. Minutes? Hours? Time feels like it gave up and left me the moment I opened my eyes to iron bars and cold stone and a fucking collar around my neck.

No clothes. No light, except for that sickly glow from the ceiling. My skin’s raw from the concrete floor. I can feel bruises blooming on my hipbones like flowers nobody asked for.

I really thought I could pull it off.

God, I thought I was so clever. Journalism student chasing some underground corruption story — missing people, dark money trails, encrypted auction links buried in corners of the darknet. I was gonna blow it all wide open. Write the piece. Win awards. Maybe even make my parents proud for once.

And now? I’m in a fucking cage. Naked. Collared. Like some animal waiting to be tagged and sold.

I remember exactly when it started. Like a movie playing behind my eyes while I sit here pretending I don’t want to scream.

It was one of those nights where my brain wouldn’t shut up. I was deep in forums I shouldn’t have had access to, decrypting files I should’ve left alone. I found the first thread by accident — someone asking too many questions about people vanishing near the docks. Someone else mentioned auctions, tags, lots. I thought it was just twisted fiction at first. But the timestamps were fresh. The usernames too clean. And then… the photos. Blurry, low-res, but real.

Too real.

That’s when the obsession started.

I followed every digital thread like it was divine. Spent nights in chatrooms under a fake name. Built trust. Got arrogant. One guy said he had real info. Proof. A list of clients, even. Told me to meet him in some alley behind a closed-down pharmacy. I told myself I’d be safe. Pepper spray. Combat boots. Quick reflexes.

Turns out reflexes don’t do shit when someone grabs you from behind and jams a needle in your neck.

I remember my knees giving out. The way the world swam in and out like a dirty tide. I clawed at his arms, I think. Bit down hard. But everything slowed, like my body had stopped caring what my brain wanted. And then… black.

Next thing I knew, I was here. Somewhere beneath something. There’s no windows, just thick walls and a silence so deep it feels like a threat. The collar’s tight. Too tight when I try to yank at it, and it’s locked with something I can’t see. No seams. No weaknesses.

Like everything else down here.

I keep telling myself someone will come looking. That maybe my roommate noticed I never came home. That someone will trace the messages I left behind. But the truth? The kind that sits like broken glass in my gut?

No one’s coming.

I was so fucking stupid.

And the worst part? I still keep checking the bolts on the cage like they’re gonna magically give. I keep testing the bars with my bare hands, ignoring how the steel bites into my palms. Like I’ve got some kind of say in any of this.

I’m angry. Not just at them — whoever they are. I’m angry at myself. For thinking I could just march into hell and come out a hero. For being cocky. For being mouthy. For always thinking I was the smartest person in the room.

Now the only room I’ve got is this cage.

And I can feel it in the air — that something’s coming. Something worse than silence.

I keep hearing heels, sometimes. Distant, deliberate. Like someone’s taking their time. Like this isn’t just punishment — it’s the introduction.

Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.

If anyone ever finds this…

No. No one will.

This is just for me. The brat in the cage. The girl who thought she could fight monsters and ended up owned by them.

Riley Quinn, signing off from hell.

They say silence is peaceful. A reset button. A deep breath between storms.
Bullshit.

This silence? It’s not peace. It’s a fucking noose. Tightening. Waiting.

I’ve counted my breaths. Counted the cracks in the ceiling. Counted every time the fluorescent light above me flickers like it’s taunting me with the idea of failure. Every second stretches like skin about to tear.

I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, but my mouth tastes like metal and regret, and my body’s starting to feel like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. I refuse to curl up, though. Even if the chill sinks bone-deep. Even if the collar cuts in every time I move wrong. I sit upright, back straight, because fuck them. Whoever “they” are.

I won’t make it easy.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps.

Not the heels this time. Heavier. Heels don’t echo like that.

Two sets. One slightly dragging, like a limp or maybe just the world’s laziest gait. They stop outside my cage. My blood thumps like war drums, a beat I can’t control.

Then I hear it. The language I grew up resenting.

Polish.

Clipped words. One of them laughs. “Jest mniejsza niż myślałem.” [She’s smaller than I expected.]

I clench my teeth. Of course they’d be Polish. Just my goddamn luck.

I never wanted to speak it, never felt like I belonged to it. Picked up just enough to not get lost visiting family — just enough to hate how it sounded coming from my stepmother’s mouth. But now? Now it’s the only advantage I have, and it makes my stomach turn.

The other replies, voice lower. “Patrz na te oczy. Dziwka będzie się dobrze sprzedawać.” [Look at those eyes. The bitch’ll sell well.]

I freeze. Not because I didn’t expect it. But because hearing it in a language that’s almost mine feels like being skinned with a familiar knife.

I lift my chin. Force my voice not to tremble. “Mówicie o mnie jakbym nie rozumiała, idioci.” [You’re talking about me like I don’t understand, you idiots.]

Their heads snap toward me. The limping one — the one with the keys — barks a laugh. The other just smirks and holds something up.

A leash.

And a cattle prod.

My heart tries to punch through my ribs. I back up into the bars behind me, chest heaving. They’re not subtle about it — one unlocks the cage like he’s done this a hundred times before. The other doesn’t even speak — he just smiles. That kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

I spit before he can take another step.
Right at his feet.

“Pierdolcie się,” [Fuck you] I hiss, every syllable soaked in venom.

That gets them moving.

The leash snaps out like a whip, and I try to dodge, but the guy is fast. Too fast. I feel the collar yank me forward as he clips it in place — a clean, mechanical sound that seals the horror. I claw at the leash, but then I feel something else:

The prod. Its tip brushing just above my thigh.

I flinch.

“Oh, what, you gonna shock me? Do it,” I snarl. “Let’s see how far you get before I kick your fucking teeth in.”

Another laugh. Then something worse — a hand around my hair, yanking my head back so sharp it makes my vision blur. I snarl, bare my teeth like an animal. I’d bite him if I could get close enough.

They don’t speak again. Not in words. The prod kisses my skin — just a warning pulse. Just enough to make every nerve in my body stand at attention. I jerk, cursing in three languages, none of them polite. My legs buckle, but I don’t fall. I won’t fall.

I won’t give them that.

But my body… it remembers the pain. My throat burns from holding in a scream.

One of the men mutters something in Polish, something I don’t quite catch — something about “readying her for inspection.”

Inspection.

My stomach lurches.

The leash tightens. I’m being dragged forward, forced out of my little hell-box and into a bigger, colder one. My bare feet skid against the concrete, my jaw clenched so tight it might crack. My hands are fists. I’m still trying to calculate — how many steps to the exit, what can I grab, what can I use?

But the truth?

There’s nothing.

Just the leash. The collar. The pain still echoing through my thigh like a taunt.

And the sound of a door unlocking ahead — slow, deliberate, like a curtain rising on something worse than I’ve ever imagined.

Just the leash. The collar. The pain still echoing through my thigh like a taunt.
And the sound of a door unlocking ahead — slow, deliberate, like a curtain rising on something worse than I’ve ever imagined.

They drag me forward. Not lead — drag. My feet scramble to find purchase, toes scraping the floor, but the chain jerks and pulls, forcing my steps to fall in rhythm with theirs. I curse them the entire way, spitting out Polish filth I barely remember from a summer I spent in Warsaw with my drunk-ass uncles.

“Pierdolony chuje!” [Fucking pricks!] I shout, loud enough to bounce off the hallway walls.

They don’t respond. They just walk faster.

I try to twist free. The leash snaps taut again, slamming my neck back with a sickening jolt. I stumble, fall to one knee — but not for long. A hand fists in my hair and yanks me up so hard I swear something cracks in my spine.

Then we’re through the door.

Bright lights. Cold metal. Prep room.

There’s a steel table, like an autopsy tray without the gore. Hooks on the walls. Shackles hanging like ornaments. A cabinet filled with things I don’t recognize and don’t want to. My heart beats faster. Too fast.

They shove me against the table. One holds me down, rough hands on my shoulders, while the other digs through a tray. I thrash. Bite. Curse.

“You’re gonna regret this,” I spit, teeth bared. “When I get out of here—”

Click.

A second collar.

Not the leather one I woke up in — this one hums. Cold metal and small blinking lights. I see it too late. Feel it too late.

He slaps it around my neck, and it locks with a beep.

I stop moving.

Not because I want to.

But because I’ve seen enough fucked-up videos in my research to know what that collar does.

“Shock collar?” I mutter, then snort. “Really? What’s next, you gonna walk me like a poodle?”

ZzzzzT!

Pain rips through my throat like lightning. My body convulses, knees buckling, muscles seizing against my will. I don’t scream. Won’t give them that. But I choke, gag on the sound I try to swallow.

When it stops, I drop like a puppet whose strings got cut. Every limb feels like it’s buzzing, nerves fried just enough to remind me what they can do. My vision swims. But I don’t stay down long.

I lift my head and spit blood-tinged saliva on the floor between them.

“Nice trick,” I croak. “Bet your dicks got hard.”

The taller one — the one with the scar on his neck — glances at the other and mutters, “Trzeba założyć jej kaganiec. Wkurwia mnie.” [We should muzzle her. She’s pissing me off.]

The shorter one laughs, sharp and dry. “Nie można. Będzie mniej warta.” [Can’t. Lowers her value.]

Scar-neck shrugs. “Może potem. Na razie tylko wstrząsy.” [Maybe later. For now, just shocks.]

I shoot him a grin. “I knew you bastards were cheap.”

ZzzzzT!

Another shock. My body jerks violently again, but this time, I scream. Just once. Short and sharp. A bark of pain I can’t smother fast enough.

They like that. I can see it in their eyes.

Then come the shackles.

They haul me up — my muscles still twitching, jaw clenched to keep down the bile — and chain my wrists in front of me. Then ankles. Then a short length of chain connecting them all together, hobble-style. Just enough to move. Not enough to run.

They aren’t gentle. Metal bites into skin, already raw from the floor of my cage. I hiss, but I don’t beg. Never beg.

“You think chains make you safe from me?” I hiss through my teeth.

The man with the cattle prod holds it close — not touching me, just near enough that my skin tingles.

“She talks a lot,” he mutters in accented English this time, almost bored.

The other one answers in Polish. “She’s mouthy. That won’t last.”

They double-check the locks. Tighten them. Clip the leash to the chain between my wrists. Then the prod brushes my ribs again, not shocking me this time — just a promise.

“Stand,” one commands.

I don’t.

I spit.
Right in his face.

He wipes it off slow. No anger. Just precision. Then:

ZzzzzT!

That one’s worse. I collapse again, the shock burning through every nerve ending like acid. My body spasms on the floor. My pride’s in pieces. But I still fucking laugh — half-mad, choking on it.

“You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone,” I wheeze. “You’ll never find another bitch this difficult to train.”

One of them chuckles. The prod lingers near my face, buzzing slightly. “Maybe we will muzzle her after all.”

“After Nyx sees her,” the other replies.

Nyx. The name burns like a brand.

And suddenly, I realize this isn’t even the real start. This is just the prep. The foreplay before the horror. They’re dressing me up like some prize for monsters who don’t need to lift a finger to ruin people like me.

I’m not just scared anymore. I’m angry.

Angry enough to burn this place to the ground — if I ever get the chance.

They don’t care. My fury’s just static to them. A buzzing annoyance, nothing more. They move with quiet efficiency, the kind that comes from doing this a thousand times before. I’m just one more girl. One more body.

Scar-neck jerks my leash. “Onto the table.”

I dig in my heels, which is hilarious considering I’m barefoot and bound like some chained-up zoo exhibit. Still, I try. Still, I resist.

That earns me the third shock.

Zzzzt!

It cuts through my chest like a knife made of fire. I collapse against the edge of the table, panting, blinking tears I’ll never let fall.

“Stubborn bitch,” one of them mutters in Polish.

Then comes the muzzle.

Thick leather. Cold metal buckle. Fitted over my face like a cruel joke — because now I’m truly nothing more than an animal in their eyes. The strap pinches behind my head, locking my jaw shut. I can breathe, barely, but I can’t speak. Can’t scream. Can’t bite.

They hoist me onto the table like I weigh nothing.

Straps cinch tight across my wrists and ankles, then across my hips, chest, even my throat — a soft pad there, so it doesn’t choke, just holds. There’s no modesty in this. My legs are spread, arms out, body open and vulnerable to their touch and gaze.

This is worse than the shocks.
Worse than the chains.

I can’t move. Can’t hide.

One of them leans in, lifts my chin, and hums. His eyes aren’t looking at my body. Not yet. He’s staring at my eyes. My fucking eyes.

“Silver-violet,” he says, whistling low. “That’s rare. Very rare.”

“Will add at least twenty percent to the bidding,” the other replies. He pulls on a pair of black gloves and starts inspecting me like I’m a prize horse. Fingers press along my ribs, down my thighs, across my abdomen. They’re checking for scars. Injections. Signs of pregnancy. Anything that could make me less desirable to the monsters waiting on the other side of that wall.

I make a low noise — half growl, half gag — and try to thrash against the straps.
Nothing.
The muzzle catches my breath. The straps bruise my skin.

The gloves move on. Between my legs. Not touching inside, just around. Just enough to make my stomach twist in shame and bile.

“She’s clean,” the taller one says after a minute. “Flawless. Skin’s pale but unmarred. No tattoos. Eyes are real. No sign of cutting or trauma.”

The shorter man nods, smirking. “Gorgeous little brat. They’ll eat her alive.”

I snarl behind the muzzle. They don’t even flinch.

“She’s got a good muscle tone,” the other adds, tracing a line down my thigh. “Strong for her size. Could be fun for the right buyer. Especially one who likes a challenge.”

Challenge.
That word tastes like acid. They mean it like it’s my selling point. Not a flaw. A bonus.

They finish the inspection with a checklist on a clipboard — literally. Like I’m an inventory item.

Then comes the last touch.

The taller one unclips the muzzle, finally. My jaw aches, stiff and sore from the strain. My throat is raw, but I spit a breathless “Go fuck yourselves” just to hear myself talk again.

They ignore it.

The shorter man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, metal tag. It dangles from a short chain. He hooks it through a loop on my shock collar.

I glance down, trying to read it upside down.

Bold letters. Stamped deep.

“NOT COMPLIANT.”

I laugh. It’s wet and bitter. “You assholes think that’s gonna scare someone off?”

“On the contrary,” one of them says, tightening the chain around my neck just enough to remind me who’s in control. “It’s going to drive the price up.”

And just like that, they start unstrapping me. I don’t resist this time. What’s the point? They’ve done what they wanted. Turned me into their product. Labeled. Inspected. Tagged like meat.

The collar stays. The tag stays.

So do the chains between my ankles and wrists. Just short enough to trip me if I run.

As they drag me off the table, the leash clips back on with a brutal little click — like the sound of a gun cocking behind your head.

The door opens.

A rush of colder air flows in.

Voices echo in the distance — dozens of them. Low murmurs. Footsteps. The metallic rattle of cages and heels on concrete.

They’re taking me to the auction floor.

And I’ve never felt more human and less like a person in my entire fucking life.

The hallway feels endless. Cold concrete under bare feet. Chains clinking between my ankles, wrists pulled just far enough forward to throw off my balance. Every step is a stumble. Every yank on the leash is a threat I’m not allowed to answer.

I glare at their backs. If looks could kill, these bastards would already be choking on their own tongues.

The doors at the end open — heavy and mechanical, sliding apart with a hiss that makes the bile rise in my throat.

Light hits me like a slap.
Warm. Golden. Artificial.

It takes a second to adjust.

And then I see it.

The room.

Raised tiered seating like some fucked-up opera house. Velvet-lined boxes. Rows of rich pricks in tailored suits and glittering gowns. A chandelier overhead that probably costs more than my student debt. And at the center — a stage. Glossy black wood, smooth and empty except for a steel hook embedded in the middle.

Like the eye of some beast, waiting for a body.

The lights don’t shine on the crowd. Just on the stage. And now? On me.

“Lot number twenty-seven,” the announcer calls out, voice smooth, professional, rehearsed like it’s just another Thursday. “Female. Age twenty-one. No piercings. No tattoos. No surgical modifications. Full natural features. Clean medical scan. Rare eye coloration — silvery-violet. Moderate musculature, no prior training. High temperament classification: brat. Requires discipline. Labeled non-compliant.”

The audience shifts.

I hear murmurs. Low hums of interest. A few chuckles.

One man in a white suit lifts a monocle to his eye. A fucking monocle. I hate him immediately.

“She speaks Polish,” the announcer adds, like that’s some exotic fucking bonus. “Partial bilingual. Physically healthy. Intellectually capable. Studied journalism before detainment.”

Before detainment. That’s how they say abducted off the street and drugged like an animal.

I’m yanked forward.

Onto the stage.

The light is hot up here. It burns into my skin like judgment. Every eye in the crowd is dissecting me — my posture, my expression, the shake in my jaw I can’t hide no matter how hard I clench my teeth.

They force me down. Hard. One hand on my shoulder, the other on the back of my neck. My knees slam into the polished floor.

A sharp clink as the leash is attached to the floor hook.

There’s a chain now between my throat and the wood, yanking my posture forward until I’m practically bowing — or trying to. My spine rebels. My pride doesn’t let me fold. Not fully.

So I kneel crooked. Defiant. Back straight, jaw tight, head tilted up enough to glare at the rich bastards in their private booths.

They stare right back.

Some look amused. Others aroused. A few… indifferent. Like I’m just meat. A steak with a pulse.

Fuck. Every. One. Of. Them.

I snarl, baring my teeth like a goddamn street dog. The auctioneer keeps talking.

“Lot twenty-seven is projected for high-value bidding. Due to her rarity, condition, and temperament, we begin the bidding at two hundred thousand.”

My eyes go wide.

Two hundred fucking thousand?
For me?

Someone in the second row immediately raises a card. “Two-ten.”
Another voice cuts in. “Two-twenty-five.”
A woman in red silk, up in the balcony, doesn’t raise a hand — just lifts her glass slightly. Her assistant does the rest. “Two-fifty.”

The numbers keep climbing. And every single one makes my skin crawl.

They’re bidding on me like I’m cattle.

No — not cattle. That would imply someone gave a shit about how I feel.

This is a goddamn meat market with better lighting.

“Do I hear three hundred?” the auctioneer calls out.

I shift, just enough to make the chains rattle. The auctioneer turns toward me with an amused smirk. “She has spirit. A true brat. Just needs the right… correctional measures.”

Laughter from the crowd.

My nails dig into the floor. I want to scream. I want to spit, claw, bite — I want to hurt someone, anyone, just to feel like I still exist as something more than a purchase.

They don’t care. They love it. The worse I act, the more they want me.

A man in a blue vest shouts, “Three-fifty!”
Someone else follows. “Three-eighty.”

I close my eyes. Count backwards from ten. Eight. Six. Doesn’t help.

I open them again just in time to catch a movement on the upper balcony.

Two women.

Standing side by side in the shadows like wolves at the edge of a fire.

One tall, lean, draped in black. Sunglasses still on indoors. Mouth unreadable.
The other? Built like a soldier. Ink crawling down her arms. Boots planted wide. A knife — no, a bayonet — tucked into one boot like a goddamn statement.

They’re not bidding.
Not yet.

They’re watching.
Studying.
Like they already know they’ll win.

The woman with the knife grins at me. A grin like a knife, too.

And for the first time since waking up in that fucking cage, I feel it:

The kind of fear that doesn’t rattle.
The kind that settles.
Like a promise whispered under your skin.
Like a countdown you don’t know how to stop.

The bidding war keeps climbing like some twisted rollercoaster, and I’m stuck in the goddamn seat with my hands chained and my mouth gagged — well, almost gagged — but don’t think for a second I’m silent.

They’re yelling numbers, flashing cards, smirking like they own me. Like I’m some collectible toy they can toss in their closet until they get bored.

Three eighty. Four hundred. Four twenty-five.

I’m burning up, but it’s not just from fear or anger. It’s rage. This whole fucked-up circus makes me want to puke on every one of their polished shoes.

I’m not a goddamn auction item. I’m a person.

But here, in this hellhole, I’m nothing but “Lot Twenty-Seven,” a bratty little mouthful wrapped in flesh and chains.

I try to glare at the audience, catch someone’s eye, spit venom with my stare — anyone. But all I get are blank expressions, cold interest, or worse, thinly veiled amusement.

And then they move.

Two women step out from the shadows of the balcony like fucking wolves.

Tall, lean, and utterly deadly.

The first one is Nyx. Jesus. She’s a goddamn skyscraper at 6’2”, every step she takes echoing power. Black leather boots stomp like thunder, the old bayonet she carries clipped to her boot glinting under the lights like a promise. Tattoos snake down her muscular arms — some dark, some faded — like scars of battles no one’s allowed to know about.

Beside her, Dr. Vesper Crane glides forward, cool and calculated, wearing a black tailored suit that somehow makes her look like a fucking executioner. Five ten, lean as a whip, and with eyes cold enough to freeze fire. The tiny smirk playing at her lips is like a razor — sharp and deadly.

They don’t just watch me — they study me. Like I’m a puzzle they already know how to solve, but they want to savor the moment before they break the last piece off.

A fucking chill runs down my spine, but I won’t show it.

I clench my jaw until it hurts.

Fuck. Them.

The announcer’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the bidders in the balcony have entered the arena. Let the bidding continue.”

Nyx’s eyes lock with mine, and I swear the room shrinks around us.

I spit at her direction — probably missed by a mile — but the gesture is pure venom.

She just smiles, lips curling up like she’s tasting the sweetness of my defiance.

“Four fifty,” Dr. Vesper’s voice rings out, smooth and cold, like ice sliding over glass.

“Five hundred,” Nyx counters, stepping closer to the edge, boots thudding on the floor.

Five hundred grand.
For me.

The weight of that number crushes down, heavier than any chain.

I want to scream — to rage and thrash — but the leash yanks hard enough to remind me of my limits.

Nyx’s shadow falls over me as she steps onto the stage, black boots clicking close.

“Such spirit,” she murmurs — just loud enough for me to hear. “Almost makes me want to keep you intact.”

I snarl, head whipping up, teeth bared.

“Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart,” I spit back, voice hoarse but fierce. “You ain’t the first to think you own me.”

Dr. Vesper glides onto the stage too, calm, collected, but with that unmistakable glint of something dangerous lurking just below the surface.

She bends down, fingers trailing just inches from my silvery-violet eyes. “You’re valuable,” she says, voice low, velvet-soft. “But dangerous. That brat streak? It’s going to need breaking.”

My muscles tense, every nerve screaming, but I refuse to shrink back.

I’m a storm waiting to explode.

Nyx snorts, eyes darkening. “Brats get broken. One way or another.”

I glare up at her, biting down a curse that bubbles to the surface.

The crowd’s gone silent, watching this dance — the predator and the prey, the wolf and the lamb, except I’m not a lamb.

At least not yet.

Dr. Vesper straightens, glancing at the crowd. “We will take Lot Twenty-Seven,” she announces, voice ringing clear. “Five seventy-five thousand.”

The room bursts into whispers, then cheers, the hammer about to drop.

The auctioneer nods, smiling like he just sold the goddamn moon.

And just like that, I’m theirs.

Five seventy-five grand for me.

Like a prize at the fair.
Like a fucking trophy.

The leash tightens, dragging me forward as Nyx snaps the clasp shut on my collar again — a warning tag now flapping from it like a brand.

“Non-compliant,” it reads.

A label I’d wear with a twisted kind of pride.

The crowd’s applause roars, but I don’t feel a thing.

Nyx grips the leash, dragging me down the stairs off the stage.
Dr. Vesper’s eyes never leave mine — sharp and calculating.

“You’ll learn to obey,” she says quietly.

Nyx growls low in her throat, almost like a warning.

But I’m still burning.
Still pissed off.
Still fighting every damn second.

Because this? This is just the beginning.

They don’t even wait for the applause to fade. No victory speech, no fucking celebration.

Just a yank on the leash, hard enough to choke.

“On your feet, mutt,” Nyx growls under her breath, dragging me offstage like I’m nothing but some disobedient stray. My boots skid against the slick flooring, my legs catching every goddamn corner on the way, but I keep my jaw clenched and my eyes up.

I’m not giving them the satisfaction.

Not now. Not ever.

We pass some guards, and one of them grunts something in Polish. I only catch half of it, but it’s enough — something about “too much spirit” and “a bitch like that needs to be tamed.” Charming.

Nyx yanks again, and I stumble forward into a dark hallway, then through a heavy velvet curtain that parts like the jaws of some fucked-up beast.

And then I see it — the auction suite.

Opulent. Sleek. Private.
Like a twisted VIP lounge designed for predators with too much money and not enough soul.

Low lighting, expensive furniture. Black leather couches. A minibar stocked with crystal bottles. And a plush carpet that screams wealth.

Nyx pushes me to the center of the room with a sharp boot to the back of my thigh. I grunt, nearly falling.

“Down,” she says.

I don’t move.

She doesn’t repeat herself.

Instead, she wraps her hand in my hair and drives me to my knees between her legs, right in front of the couch. Her thighs spread slightly as she sits, looming like a fucking throne above me, and I’m made to kneel like her newest decoration.

Her boots flank me. The bayonet is visible again, clipped to her belt like a promise.

Vesper sits down beside her, calm and quiet like a surgeon preparing for the first incision.

“You can bite me,” I snap, lifting my head.

Nyx smirks. “That can be arranged.”

Then her fingers wrap around the shock remote.

One press.

A white-hot pulse sears through the collar, down into my spine, and straight to my knees.

I scream, but my pride swallows the worst of it.

My limbs shake. My jaw clenches.

“Goddamn psycho—!”

Another shock.
Shorter this time, but sharper, like a warning.

“Didn’t ask for commentary, mutt,” Nyx says, voice low and casual, like she’s talking about the weather. “You’ll learn when to bark and when to shut the fuck up.”

Vesper watches me carefully — not cruel, but clinical.

“I think she needs a name,” she murmurs. “Something fitting.”

Nyx hums, dragging a gloved finger across my cheek, then gripping my jaw tight until it aches. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”

“Bitch?” she suggests with a grin.

“Too predictable,” Vesper replies, sipping something amber from a cut-glass tumbler. “We’ll use that for training, but I want something… humiliating. Something that sticks.”

“Mutt, then,” Nyx decides. “She already acts like one. Snarling. Scrappy. Not very well-trained.”

I sneer. “Name me whatever the fuck you want. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer to it.”

Nyx raises her brows, then reaches for the cattle prod resting near the couch.

Oh no.
Oh fucking no.

She doesn’t even press it to me. Just brings it close enough for the buzz to rattle in my ears.

“Answer that again, mutt,” she says, low and slow. “See if you like the new game.”

I keep my mouth shut this time.
Barely.

Only because I know I’ll scream if she touches me with it again, and I’m not giving her that.
Not yet.

Instead, I cast my eyes around the room like a cornered animal. The curtain parts briefly again, another girl dragged up onto the stage like I was just minutes ago. She looks dazed, confused, practically limp.

They force her to kneel just like they did to me.

My stomach twists.

I want to shout at her to fight, to bite, to not make it easy for them — but what would it change?

My collar itches.
My knees burn from the plush rug.
And I can still taste bile in the back of my throat.

Vesper tilts her head, watching me with that eerie calm. “She’ll respond better once she’s trained. That defiance is rooted in ego. Once she learns she’s owned, it’ll crack.”

Nyx chuckles. “It’ll be fun breaking her, though. Mouthy little thing like this? Takes longer. Means more pain.”

She strokes a finger down my scalp like I’m some pampered show dog.

I jerk away, snarling.

“You’ll regret this.”

“Oh, we hope so,” Nyx purrs.

Vesper nods. “Pain refines. We’ll sculpt her down to the bone if we have to.”

I lock eyes with her. “Go to hell.”

Nyx shocks me again.

I drop forward, palms hitting the carpet as the zap arcs down my spine.

And they laugh.
Like it’s a fucking joke.
Like I’m the joke.

The girl on stage cries out — someone’s bid just hit six hundred.

And all I can do is kneel between two monsters, forced to watch.

My name is Riley Quinn.
I used to be someone.

Now?
I’m “mutt.”

And I swear to God, if I ever get the chance —

I’ll rip their throats out with my teeth.

The auction ends with a final gavel slam. Like a gunshot. Like a sentence being passed.

I don’t even get time to breathe.

Nyx grabs my leash again, yanks me up so hard the collar bites into my neck. I stagger, growling under my breath, teeth clenched, body aching.

“Where the fuck are we going now?” I snarl.

She answers with her boot.

A sharp nudge behind my knee drops me. I catch myself with my hands, but just barely.

“Changing room,” Vesper says coolly, stepping over me like I’m not even there. “Can’t parade our new acquisition around like some feral animal. Even if she is one.”

I grit my teeth. “Go choke on a Chanel heel, you ice-cold bitch.”

That earns me a crack across the thigh — not from the prod this time, but from a cane. Thin. Sharp. A perfect fucking sting that sets my skin on fire.

Nyx grins, twirling it like a conductor’s baton. “Thanks, doc. Think I’ll hold onto this.”

“Don’t damage her,” Vesper reminds her. “No bruises. We’re not savages.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nyx mutters as she drags me into a smaller side room, walls lined with clothing racks like some high-end boutique from hell.

She shoves me forward, and I stumble into a full-length mirror.

That’s when I see it.

Me. Collar tight around my throat. Skin flushed. Knees dirty. Hair tangled. Eyes still fucking burning.

Silvery-violet. The only thing they seem to care about.

The rest of me? Just meat to be dressed.

“Pick one,” Nyx orders, motioning toward the racks. “Or I’ll pick for you.”

“Bite me,” I snap.

Wrong answer.

The cane slices through the air — a flash — and cracks against my ribs. I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood but don’t cry out.

She backhands me next, palm rough against my cheek. Not hard enough to bruise, just enough to sting.

“Watch your mouth, mutt.”

“I’d rather watch you fall into a fucking blender.”

Nyx just grins wider. “We’ll break that tongue eventually.”

She doesn’t wait for me to choose.

She grabs something ridiculous — some soft, black velvet thing that looks more like lingerie than a dress. Thin straps, open back, high slit. Fucking humiliating.

“Arms up,” she commands.

“No.”

Another crack of the cane.

“Arms. Up.”

I hiss but obey — slowly, shaking, venom in every inch of me.

She yanks the thing over my head, pulls it down roughly, like she’s dressing a mannequin she wants to ruin. The fabric clings to me like oil. Every curve exposed. Every inch of me screaming in protest.

“I swear to God,” I mumble, “I’m gonna gut you in your sleep.”

“I don’t sleep, mutt,” Nyx says, smirking. “But you’ll beg to. Eventually.”

She yanks the hem down, tightens the collar, smooths the dress like I’m some fucking doll. Then grabs a tag from the counter — black leather, engraved.

She clips it to my collar.

“Not Compliant.”

Like a fucking warning label.
Like a fucking joke.

“Perfect,” Vesper says from the doorway. “Now let’s go. Car’s ready.”

They drag me again — still barefoot, still seething — out through a back corridor and into the cool night air. A black Maybach idles at the curb. Sleek. Silent. Like a fucking hearse.

Nyx opens the trunk first.
Then the rear door.
Her smirk returns.

“Floor,” she says, pointing to the polished interior. “Or trunk. Your choice, mutt.”

“I hope you both die in a fire.”

“Trunk it is,” she says, reaching for my arm.

I fight.
Twisting, elbowing, trying to dig my nails into her, but she’s stronger — way stronger. She pins me against the side of the car, then presses her boot down on my foot until I yelp.

I freeze.

Not from pain.
From rage.
Pure, shaking rage.

“I said,” Nyx murmurs, leaning close to my ear, “choose.”

I breathe through my nose, fuming.

“Floor,” I hiss.

She chuckles.

I crawl in, hands trembling, face burning.

The door slams shut behind me.

Vesper slides into the seat across from me like a fucking queen. Nyx next to her, cane resting lazily against her thigh.

I sit on the floor like a fucking animal, glaring up at them both.

“Mutt suits her,” Vesper says softly.

“Yeah,” Nyx agrees, brushing her boot against my knee. “She’ll wear it well.”

I don’t say a word.

But inside?
I’m screaming.
I’m plotting.
I’m promising—

They’ll fucking regret this.

The Maybach’s interior is all leather and polished chrome, the kind of car that screams “I’m richer than your entire family’s combined.” But down here, on the cold, unforgiving floor between their pristine seats, I’m nothing but a stain on the upholstery.

My back’s pressed against the door, legs curled like I’m some shitty leftover. The dress is a thin whisper against my skin, cold where it touches my bare legs. The collar burns a constant reminder at my throat, and the chains clink softly whenever I shift.

Nyx lounges like she owns the goddamn world — tall, solid, her bayonet clipped to the side like a beast waiting to pounce. Vesper is all sharp edges and calculating eyes, flipping through papers on her lap with a calm that makes my blood boil.

They’re talking about business. Cold, brutal, mafia shit I’ve spent my entire goddamn life chasing stories about. Cartels, cash flows, power moves. Things I’d kill to expose. But not a single word is for me. I’m background noise, invisible. A piece of meat in their vault.

That’s the fucking worst part.

The silence stretches until I can’t take it anymore.

“I’m right here,” I growl, voice raw from shouting all day. “Or did you forget the mute button?”

Nyx glances down, smirking. “Speak only when spoken to, mutt.”

“Fuck off.”

Vesper doesn’t even look up. “You have no idea what’s at stake.”

“Oh, I have an idea,” I snap, struggling to sit up straighter despite the chains. “It’s called human trafficking, and you two are the goddamn CEOs.”

Nyx laughs, dark and rough. “Cute. You think you’re anything special?”

“I am something special,” I hiss. “A goddamn journalist with a future, which is why you’re wasting your time here.”

They exchange a look, amused and cold.

“Your mouth’s going to get you hurt,” Vesper says quietly. “Or worse.”

I flip them the bird under the table.

The car hums forward, smooth as hell, but every second feels like a lifetime.

Then I fuck up.

I blurt out, “You’re not gonna sell me, right? Because if you did, you’d be throwing away a fucking goldmine.”

Nyx leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Careful what you say, kitten. You’re not for sale.”

Vesper nods. “You’re… an investment.”

“Investment my ass,” I spit. “You just want a pet you can break.”

Nyx’s fingers twitch. I see the cane — it’s back. “One more smartass word, and I’ll remind you what happens to bratty pets.”

I swallow, lungs burning from the threat.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, voice dripping poison. “I get it.”

They go back to talking, voices low, but I catch snippets.

“Shipment next week… no leaks…”
“Safe houses compromised…”
“New blood moving fast…”

Goddamn it.

I’m hearing everything they’d kill to keep secret. Stories that could blow entire syndicates sky-high.

And me? I’m chained to the floor, a mute brat with silvery eyes and too much mouth.

Every time I open it, I get zapped back down.
I’m a live wire, snapping under the pressure, and I hate myself for it.

But I can’t shut up.
I don’t want to shut up.
I want to scream.
I want to fight.
I want to burn their whole fucking empire down.

Nyx leans closer, voice low and dangerous. “You’ll learn to shut up. Or we’ll make you.”

I bite back a scream.

But I don’t kneel.
I don’t beg.

Not yet.

Because inside me, the fire is still raging.
And as much as they want to own me — as much as I’m a prize, a pet, an investment —

I’m still a fucking brat.
And I’m not going quietly.

I didn’t get a choice.

One second I was gritting my teeth on the floor of their goddamn overpriced car, and the next—Nyx’s arm looped around my waist like I was some fucking prize pig at a market—she threw me over her shoulder.

“Put me the fuck down, you steroid junkie!” I shouted, fists pounding against her back, legs kicking uselessly. She didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t even slow down.

And then… the blindfold. Thick, soft cloth cutting off everything. My last thread of control.

“Fucking cowards,” I hissed into the dark, “can’t even let me see where you’re dragging me—what, afraid I’ll draw a map with my ass?”

She just laughed. Deep and smug. “You’d need to sit still for that, mutt.”

I hate her.

I hate how steady she walks, like this is normal. Like I’m just some spoiled pet getting carried home.

No creaky basement steps. No damp cells. No screams in the distance.

Just… expensive-smelling air. Marble underfoot. The faint scent of lavender and leather.

When she drops me, it’s not the cold slap of concrete I expect. It’s carpet. Thick, plush, probably more expensive than my tuition. I sink into it on impact, the blindfold yanked off with a sharp tug.

The room is fucking ridiculous.

Candlelit sconces. A bed big enough to drown in. Silk sheets. Velvet armchairs. Walls in soft champagne and wine tones. A gold-plated vanity. A massive wardrobe in the corner. And right there — blinking like some twisted Christmas light — a red camera in the top corner.

Recording.
Always recording.

The collar chafes as I sit up, trying to process the absolute mindfuck of it all.

“What is this?” I spit, glaring at Nyx. “The honeymoon suite? Hate to break it to you, but you’re not my fucking type.”

She crouches beside me, brushing my hair behind my ear with a touch way too gentle to be anything but mocking. “No, kitten. But you’re ours. And this?” She stands again, looking over the room like a queen surveying her throne. “This is where we break in our pets.”

My stomach knots. I shoot to my feet, or try to — the chain from the collar yanks me back down.

“You’re insane.”

She doesn’t respond. Just smirks as Vesper enters behind her, slipping off a pair of black gloves, cool and composed like always.

“We’ll be preparing dinner,” Vesper says, eyes scanning the room — and me — like I’m just another part of the decor. “You’ll get dressed.”

I scoff. “In what? My dignity?”

Nyx gestures toward the wardrobe. “Take your pick.”

I hesitate. The silence is like a noose.

“Pick what?” I mutter, storming over anyway — because fuck them — yanking open the wardrobe doors like I’m expecting jeans and a hoodie.

Instead? I’m greeted by silk. Lace. Mesh.

Nothing practical. Nothing decent. Just expensive, skin-baring lingerie. Sets in black satin, blood-red lace, soft white mesh with pearl buttons. There’s even one in lilac, matching my stupid, cursed eyes.

I let out a bitter laugh. “No clothes, huh? Just underwear for your fucking live-in doll.”

No answer.

I turn, fists clenched. “You want me to pick which one I wear like this is some kind of twisted sleepover?”

Nyx leans against the doorway, arms crossed, smug as hell. “If you don’t pick, I’ll dress you myself. And I promise I’ll enjoy it more than you will.”

I stare at her. Jaw tight. Chest heaving.

And for a second, the fire sputters. Just a second. Because I’m trapped, and that camera’s still blinking, and they’re watching. Always watching. Like gods over a pathetic little creature who thought she could dig too deep and come out clean.

I grab the least slutty-looking set — black mesh with straps that barely cover anything — and hurl it at the bed.

“Fine,” I snarl. “I’ll wear your fucking whore costume. But don’t think for one second I’ll ever kneel willingly.”

Nyx just grins. “That’s alright, mutt. We’ve got time.”

They leave, finally. The door clicks shut.

And I’m alone.

Alone in a room made for a princess, dressed like a pet, under a camera that never blinks.

I’m not crying. Not yet.

I’m shaking. Pissed. Humiliated. But not broken.
Not even close.

They want me to be soft. Obedient. A little kitten in silk.

But I’m still Riley fucking Quinn.

And no matter what they dress me in…

I bite.