Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(8)

“I didn’t sign up for anything.”

The man’s lips twitch. “Every person that steps into one of these events signs up. You’re automatically added to the ballot once your attendance has been confirmed. Technically, you can decline, but it has to be before you enter the event. Did no one explain that to you at the door?”

A live auction means they bid on you. Jesus, I hadn’t thought Aurora was serious.

How is that even legal?

I shake my head. “Well, I need to speak to someone, then, because clearly I wasn’t expecting this—”

“Dressed like that? You’re practically begging for it, sweetheart.” He presses the buzzer against my thigh just as it roars to life, rippling against my skin. “Oh, look at that. Someone must’ve purchased your company for the night.”

The hand on my stool slides up, cupping my hip, and I jerk in the opposite direction, trying to wrench away from his grip. His fingers tighten on my thigh, pain sparking where his nails dig into the bare skin, and terror spreads through my limbs like a fast-acting poison, destroying my nerve endings.

Swallowing, I lean harder to the left, my eyes frantic as they scan behind the bar again, wondering why no one is paying attention. A girl is being accosted in public, and yet there isn’t a single person who seems to mind.

Then again, if this is the kind of place you can buy someone’s time, I guess maybe they don’t see it as a big deal.

“Want to know what I’m gonna do with you?” the man asks, parting my hair with his nose and scraping his lips over the shell of my ear.

I shiver, a ball of anxiety unraveling in my gut, and he takes it as a sign to continue. “We’ll get you out of that dress, for starters. Maybe before we even make it out of the building.”

A memory flashes across my vision as he speaks, horror spiking in my chest and pulsing outward. The smell of burned flesh and blood floods my nostrils, and I fold into myself and squeeze my eyes shut, willing it to be over.

Something slaps against the bar top, the sound ringing through my ears over the din and chatter floating around the ballroom. I jump, fear launching headfirst into my throat, and exhale when the man’s hands immediately stiffen against my body.

Peeling my eyes open, I find the source of the intrusion; my gaze trails slowly, beginning at long, tapered fingers as they curl around the edge of the counter. Silver rings, some thick and bejeweled while others are thin and plain, adorn each digit, and ink winds up from his knuckles over large veiny hands, disappearing beneath the sleeve of a light denim jacket.

I suck in a heavy breath as the new man leans against the bar. His cologne is the only part of him that reaches me—something spicy and masculine, like pine and cardamom.

Somehow, it feels as though I’ve been engulfed in flames.

I don’t dare look any higher.

The pervert at my side huffs, sitting back in his seat, but he doesn’t remove his hands. The buzzing on my leg doesn’t cease, making the skin beneath go numb.

“Can we help you, son?” he snaps, not bothering to stifle his irritation.

“She’s not for sale.”

The stranger’s voice is deep with a slight rasp, like melted chocolate topped with bits of coconut. I want it to dissolve on my tongue.

It’s also… familiar.

“I beg your pardon?”

Releasing the counter, the tattooed hand whips out, snatching the buzzer from the other man’s grip. I watch, mesmerized, as the stranger turns it over with deft fingers and hits a button that lights up the little screen.

“I didn’t stutter,” he says, and I can’t stop staring at his hand—the way his veins bulge against the Medusa design covering the back of it. Her serpentine hair stretches out over each of his fingers, her eyes practically glowing even though the design is just line work and shading.

Heat flares between my legs, and I shift, clenching them together against the foreign sensation.

Tension hangs heavy in the air, and I’m not sure if I’m even breathing anymore. The pervert clamps down on my thigh, and I can already feel the bruises sprouting there.

“I’m not going to fight with you over her—”

“You’re right, you’re not. We aren’t fighting at all. You were just leaving.”

The stranger’s hand moves, and then he brings the buzzer down on the bar, sending shards of plastic and metal pieces flying.

My eyes slip, temptation winning out; I see black jeans with holes in the knees. A Sex Pistols hoodie beneath the denim jacket and a single silver chain peeking out from the neckline, bright and shiny against more tattooed skin.

Continuing up, my stomach somersaults, and it feels like I’ve just jumped from an airborne plane with no parachute.

I know this man.

Well, as much as you can know someone from behind a screen or magazine spread. Or a shared look across a room.

Aiden fucking James. My former idol, when celebrity worship was my favorite pastime.

The lump that forms in my throat, hard and sticky, says that maybe I haven’t moved on as much as I thought.

Or maybe it’s just because when I lift my gaze, stormy gray eyes sear directly into my soul, stealing the breath right from where it rests on my tongue.

He’s mesmerizing in person.

Sharp. Raw.

Intense.

Angry.