Auctioned to the devil [M × M]

Tobias' POV

Never in a million years did I think I'd be here.

On a stage. On my knees. My Hands tied behind my back with a rope biting into skin that's already blistered. A single spotlight burns down from above, harsh and hollow, illuminating the sweat sliding down my spine.

There are six of us tonight. Boys my age, younger and some even older, all victims. The crowd doesn't care. Age is a number and pain is a currency. They came for blood, beauty and pleasure.

They'll get it.

A number is pinned to my bare chest-43, black on white. I can't look down at it, but I feel it. Like a brand, a tattoo, a grave marker.

My knees ache on the polished stone floor. They made us kneel the moment we were dragged out of the tiny room behind the stage without a warning or explanation but just a command "Down."

I didn't move fast enough and got a boot to the ribs for my hesitation. Which hurt so much I still can't fully breathe.

Someone behind the curtain calls out bids in a smooth, lilting voice. "Lot Forty-Two. Pure. Obedient. Unmarked."

The crowd murmurs. A few claps. The number ticks higher and higher. I stopped listening.

I tug at the rope behind my back again, with all my attempts useless. It's knotted too tightly, rough and unrelenting. My wrists are raw, my skin splitted in some places and I think I'm bleeding but I don't care.

They stripped us of everything. Our name, dignity, identity and clothes too. All I wear is a thin piece of silk around my hips which offers no warmth or safety. Only exposure.

The boy next to me is crying again. Small, sharp sounds-like he's trying not to be heard. Like it matters. He's maybe seventeen. Pretty in a way that makes my stomach twist. I don't know his name.

They told us not to speak. I disobeyed once and got punished so I stay quiet now. Not because I want to,but because I have to.

Rule One: Don't speak unless spoken to.

Rule Two: Never look them in the eyes.

Rule Three: You are property. Not a person.

I hate those rules. It makes me feel more like an animal instead of a human being.

"Lot Forty-Three."

My heart stops.

That's me.

The spotlight shrinks and closes in. It's just me now with nothing but bones and breath in a ring of fire. I stare into the white and pretend I don't feel my hands shake. Pretend I'm not here.

"Rare acquisition," the announcer purrs. "He is young, defiant, untouched."

That last word makes bile rise in my throat.

"He'll fight you," they add with a chuckle. "But isn't that part of the fun?"

Laughter ripples through the dark like a plague.

I stare into the shadows. I can't see faces-just silhouettes in tuxedos and gowns, masks covering everything but their eyes. Some lean forward. Others whisper. One licks his lips like he's already tasted me.

I focus on a fixed point above them. A crystal chandelier. Beautiful and grotesque. Like everything here.

Bidding begins.

It starts low then Jumps high.

$100,000.

$150,000.

$275,000.

$300,000.

I stopped listening again. It's not real. None of it is real. It can't be. I was sketching floor plans for a dream café in my apartment three nights ago. Drinking cheap instant coffee. Watching the rain paint streaks on my window.

Now I'm merchandise.

I feel something shift in the crowd. A new presence, heavy and electric. The air chills and goosebumps rise on my skin.

Then I hear it. "One million." His voice is quiet.

But it cuts through the room like a scalpel. The room goes silent. No counterbids or murmurs. Only stillness.

The announcer clears his throat. "We... have a bid of one million dollars for Lot Forty-Three. Going once. Going twice..."

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Sold."

The crowd erupts in polite applause. A bell rings overhead.And just like that, I'm gone.

Sold.

---

I wasn't untie. Two guards lift me to my feet by my arms and drag me offstage like a sack of grain. My legs don't cooperate. My knees buckle with every step. One of them curses and tightens his grip.

"Fucking pretty boy," he spits. "Think you're special? He'll break you in a week."

I don't answer. I couldn't even glare at him because of how tired and weak I was.

I'm taken through a maze of corridors, each colder and more lifeless than the last. I try to memorize turns, exits, anything-but everything looks the same. White walls, gray floors and cameras in the corners.

Eventually, we reach a private room. Dark mahogany, dim lighting, an expensive leather armchair facing the door and empty.

"He'll be here soon," one of the guards grunts.

They drop me onto a padded ottoman in the center of the room and leave. The door clicks shut behind them and locks. I stay still.

The ropes are too tight-cutting deep and unforgiving. My shoulders burn like they've been set alight.

And the fear?

It's thick in my throat, sour and rotting, like something I should've spat out hours ago. But I won't let it show.

This is it. This is where he sees what he paid for.

The silence is deafening. Time drips slowly, like blood from an open wound. I wonder what he'll look like.

Old?

Fat?

Smiling?

But when the door finally opens, none of those things walk in.

He does. Tall, cold and impossibly elegant.

Dressed Black on black. With a Suit sharp as sin. His dark hair slicked back and a face like carved stone looking flawless and cruel. And his eyes like storms, gray-blue and unreadable.

He shuts the door behind him with a soft click and says nothing. Just looks at me and studies me like I'm a puzzle he already knows the answer to.

My spine goes rigid and I stare back, looking carefully and deliberately. Not in defiance but not submission either.

He steps closer and I brace myself.

He circles me once, twice, like a predator with time to kill. His shoes make no sound on the floor and he doesn't touch me or speak.

And then he stops behind me and I feel the heat of his body.

His voice brushes my ear like a knife wrapped in velvet.

"You're smaller than I expected."

I say nothing.

"Pretty, though."

Still nothing.

He chuckles, and it's a dark sound. Not amused. Amused people have hearts. He doesn't. I can feel it.

"Do you know who I am, Forty-Three?"

I swallow. "No."

Wrong answer.

His hand snaps into my hair, jerks my head back so I'm looking up at him with his face is calm.

"I paid one million dollars for you," he says softly. "Speak again without permission, and I'll make you regret it."

The pain isn't the worst part. It's the way my stomach twists at his touch.

He lets me go, and I suck in a shaky breath.

"My name is Benjamin Shaai," he says, moving in front of me again. "But you will call me Sir. Understood?"

I nod.

"Good."

He pulls a blade from his pocket, it is small, curved, beautiful. It flashes once in the low light before slicing through the rope around my wrists. It falls in coils to the floor.

My arms drop and my shoulders scream. I don't move and he kneels in front of me. Close, way too close.

"From now on," he says, his voice low, intimate, "you don't speak unless I allow it. You don't move unless I told you to. You don't come unless I command it. You pleasure is mine."

My chest heaves.

"You belong to me, Tobias."

My heart stutters. How does he know my name He smiles which was not kind. "I make it my business to know what I own."

He rises to his feet and walks to the door.

Pauses.

"One last thing," he says without turning.

"There's no escape. Try to run, and I'll make sure you beg me to kill you." The door opens.

Then he's gone.

And I'm left kneeling in the dark, my wrists bruised, throat dry and my heart pounding like a war drum.

This is it, I'm Owned.

But not I'm broken.

Not yet or never.