"Two million." Dante says lazily, as if it were a joke only he could hear.
It's not shouted. No paddle raised. Just two fingers lifted from where he lounges in the third-row—posture crooked, elbow draped over the back of the chair beside him as if he were waiting for a fucking movie to start. The room goes dead quiet. Even the auctioneer hesitates—mouth half-open, eyes flicking down to the bid sheet in disbelief as if expecting to find a typo next to Lot 33.
Dante attended one of the Darkh clans auctions not expecting anything, really. Certainly not him bidding on anyone, let alone on her.
Vierva was labeled broken. A liability. Her family didn't kill her—just sold her off, like another jewel from Aamon's curated collection. Another slave to be worn down. Owned. Used. Forgotten.
Barely anyone bid. Damaged goods meant trouble—maybe dull, maybe unstable, maybe lethal. No one knew. No one dared ask.
But Dante isn't like the others. He'd seen those eyes that refused to rise from the ground now before. Once, years ago, wandering through the estate. Eyes that stripped him bare with a glance, left something inside him trembling and still unnamed.
Someone coughs in the back. Another bidder lowers his hand without making eye contact.
"Two million confirmed," the auctioneer calls after a moment, voice clipped and cautious now. "Do I hear—?"
"No," Dante cuts in, smiling without teeth. "No you don't."
He tilts his head back and looks up at the chandelier above the stage. The crystals catch the light just enough to reflect in his eyes, cold and too bright for the room they were in.
He looks… amused. Like this entire event is a private comedy show and Vierva was the punchline he'd been waiting to see land for years.
"You're overpaying." someone whispers behind him—low enough to avoid being heard by the wrong ears, but not low enough to escape Dante's notice. His eyes slide sideways without turning his head.
"Am I?" he asks.
No one replies. He stands, slow and deliberate, and walks down the steps toward the edge of the stage. The handlers stiffen. One of them reaches instinctively for the chain clipped to Vierva 's collar, but Dante stops him with nothing more than a look—pale blue eyes catching his wrist mid-motion and freezing it in place.
"I paid for her," he says, voice dry. "Let go."