Chapter 1

There is something uniquely humiliating about being sold on the same rug where you learned to walk.

It was a Tabriz. Late 19th century. One of the few things the creditors hadn't dragged out to the moving vans yet, probably because it was stained with the spilled brandy from my father’s suicide attempt last week.

"Do I hear fifty thousand?" the auctioneer asked. He was a sweaty man named Mr. Gyles, wearing a suit that looked like it was made of polyester and despair.

"Fifty-five," grunted the man on the left. Mr. Henderson. He owned a chain of slaughterhouses. He smelled like bleach and copper.

I shifted my weight, trying not to look bored. Dissociation is a wonderful skill, really. If you stare hard enough at the water stain on the ceiling, you can pretend you’re not Verity Caldwell, former debutante, currently being auctioned off like a prize heifer to pay for Daddy’s Ponzi scheme.

"Sixty," countered the second bidder, a man whose neck was wider than his head.

"Gentlemen, please," I drawled, checking my nails. The polish was chipped. "I speak three languages and I can mix a perfect martini. Surely I’m worth at least seventy? Inflation is a killer these days."

Mr. Gyles shot me a look that promised pain if I didn't shut up. "The contract is for five years of domestic service and debt repayment," he reminded them. "Total obedience clause included."

I yawned. It was a fake yawn, designed to hide the fact that my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was terrified. But I’d be damned if I let these vultures see me sweat. If I was going down, I was going down with a quip.

"Sixty-five," Henderson said, licking his lips.

The front door slammed open.

A gust of wind tore through the hallway, bringing the smell of rain and expensive leather into the stale room. We all turned.

Standing in the archway was Kian Rourke.

He was dripping wet. His black trench coat was slick with rain, and his hair—darker and shorter than I remembered—was plastered to his forehead. He didn't look like the gardener’s boy anymore. He didn't look like the boy who used to sneak into my room to read poetry by flashlight.

He looked like money. Dangerous, dirty, new money.

"Get out," Kian said. His voice was low, but it carried the kind of weight that cracked pavement.

Mr. Gyles straightened his cheap tie. "This is a private auction, sir. You can't just—"

"I said get out," Kian interrupted. He walked into the room, his boots leaving muddy prints on the hardwood. He didn't look at me. He looked at Henderson. "I’m buying the debt. Full value. Plus ten percent if you leave in the next thirty seconds."

Henderson looked at Kian. He looked at the scar running through Kian’s eyebrow—a souvenir from a bar fight, or maybe a knife fight, considering Kian’s current reputation in the city. Henderson was a predator, but he knew a bigger wolf when he saw one.

"It's all yours, Rourke," Henderson muttered. He grabbed his hat and scrambled out the door. The other two followed him like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Mr. Gyles looked relieved. "Full value? That’s... well, that’s excellent. I just need a signature."

Kian pulled a checkbook from his coat pocket. He signed with a flourish, ripped the page out, and handed it to Gyles. "Leave the contract. Get out."

Gyles practically sprinted to the door.

The heavy oak door slammed shut, echoing through the empty house.

Silence descended on the drawing room. It was just us. The princess and the pauper, standing on the ruins of my life.

I let out a breath I had been holding for three hours. My knees felt weak.

"Took you long enough, Rourke," I said, forcing a crooked smile onto my face. "Did you stop for coffee? Or were you just waiting for the dramatic entrance?"

He finally looked at me. His eyes were the color of flint. Cold, hard, unreadable.

"You look terrible, Vee," he said.

"Trauma does wonders for the complexion," I shot back, stepping off the rug. I walked toward him. My legs were shaking, but I forced myself to move.

He had come for me. After five years of silence, after I broke his heart to keep my father happy, he had come back. It was like a movie. The rogue hero saving the damsel at the last second.

"I knew you'd come," I whispered, reaching out for his hand. "I knew you wouldn't let them take me."

I waited for him to pull me into his arms. I waited for the warmth, the forgiveness, the familiar scent of pine and soil that used to cling to him.

Kian didn't take my hand.

He stepped back.

My hand hovered in empty air. I looked up at him, confused. "Kian?"

"You misunderstood the transaction," he said calmly.

He reached into his coat pocket. He didn't pull out a ring. He didn't pull out a key to a getaway car.

He pulled out a rag. A grey, microfiber cleaning cloth.

He tossed it at me.

It hit me in the chest and fluttered to the floor.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"The mantelpiece is dusty," Kian said. He walked over to the fireplace, running a finger along the marble. He inspected the grime on his fingertip with a look of distaste.

"I don't understand," I whispered.

"I bought the debt, Verity," Kian said, turning to face me. "I own the contract. Five years. Domestic service. Total obedience."

"But... it's me," I pleaded. "It's Vee. You saved me."

"I didn't save you," Kian replied, his voice devoid of any emotion. It was dead. Flat. "I acquired you."

He gestured around the empty room. "You used to look down on me for cleaning this house. You used to laugh when my father scrubbed your floors. You said it was 'women's work' or 'servant's work.'"

"I was sixteen!" I cried. "I was a stupid child!"

"And now you're an employee," Kian said. He pointed to the rag on the floor.

"Pick it up."

I stared at him. I looked for a flicker of the boy who loved me. I looked for a joke, a smirk, anything to tell me this was just his twisted way of teaching me a lesson before he took me away from here.

There was nothing. Just the cold, hard stare of a man who had waited a long time to watch me kneel.

"I said pick it up," Kian commanded.

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and stinging. The sarcasm died in my throat. The shield crumbled.

I slowly crouched down. My fingers closed around the grey cloth.

"Start with the molding," Kian said, turning his back on me to look out the window at the rain. "And don't stop until I can see my reflection."

I looked at his back. I looked at the empty room where I used to play. I realized then that the auction hadn't been a rescue. It had been a sentencing.

"Yes, sir," I whispered.

I walked to the wall and began to scrub.