Elena nodded. “I know,” she assured us. “Same warnings as in the clubs. Better safe than sorry.”
I kept silent until Susan fixed me with a curious look. “What’s your story, Jenny? Why did you decide to do this?”
“My sister has leukemia,” I lied. “I need the money.”
Elena turned to me with an expression of sympathy but Susan looked troubled. “Umm, Jenny, does Madame Lorraine know this?” she asked.
“Of course,” I responded. “Why?”
“Because money impacts consent,” Susan replied. “If you are desperate for the money, are you really likely to use your safe words when you need to?”
Susan was wise and perceptive. Money did impact consent. As did a thirst for revenge. I knew that if Alexander won me, no matter what he wanted to do with me, I would allow it. I wouldn’t use my safe word. I wouldn’t say no. I would be the best slave-girl it was possible to be. I would do whatever it took to get him to take me to Hanoi with him. Hanoi, where Dylan McAllister lived in an impenetrable compound that we had tried to infiltrate three times in the last year and a half.
I would do whatever Alexander wanted. I would do it willingly and obediently. Because this was only three months and I could endure it. I had endured so much more.
***
My hair was sculpted into an elaborate, braided hairdo. I was made up skillfully, with eye liner and mascara and eyeshadow to draw out the green of my eyes. My lips were painted a crimson red. My pale skin was tinted with foundation that made it seem soft and dewy; my cheeks were highlighted with blush. I was draped in a black silk robe that could easily be untied so that my purchaser could inspect the goods before he or she bought me.
When I looked in the mirror, I was unrecognizable.
This morning, before I left my hotel room on Khao San Road, I had taped a Bowie knife to the underside of the toilet lid cover. I had killed with that knife.
I could run twenty-five miles without stopping. I could kill a man with my bare hands. I could speak five languages with reasonable fluency. I could walk into a room and tell you instantly how many people were in it and who the most likely threats were. I was a trained warrior.
When I looked in the mirror, I saw none of that. What I saw was a young woman with blushing cheeks and kohl-rimmed eyes, waiting to be purchased at an auction by her Master. I looked like prey.
The blood pounded in my veins. I had been prey once but I had been freed by Lucien and I’d promised myself - never again. I had trained. I had studied. I had done everything I could to become the hunter, not the hunted. And yet, here I was again.
But Alexander Hamilton was our only way in and the only way to reach Alexander Hamilton was through this auction.
I looked like prey because I was prey. I was the bait and Alexander had to take it. It was my only hope.
Chapter 5
Ellie / Jenny:
There were twelve women waiting in a small chamber. When Susan, Elena and I walked in, we made fifteen. Fifteen slaves. I tried to work the numbers in my head to distract myself from my fears. But while my memory was incredible, I was useless at mental math. I did sums anyway, to try to figure out what the average sale price of each submissive would be. Madame Lorraine’s extensive background check would not have been cheap to conduct. Then there was the cost of renting this BDSM club for this evening. Finally, Sarit, the hairdressers, the make-up artists, all of them would need to be paid, all of this taken out of the fifteen percent the auction house kept for itself.
A thorough, two-month background check. That would cost five, maybe ten thousand dollars. Potentially more, depending on how sophisticated the check needed to be. So at the very minimum, I’d need to be sold for one hundred thousand dollars for this business to stay in the black.
I whistled silently in my head at my conclusion. Lucien was rich enough to pay for my living expenses while he trained me to be a killer, but I didn’t live lavishly at all. In Cleveland, I’d been poor, the daughter of a struggling single parent. I’d worked in the mall for minimum wage so that I could help out my mother with the bills. Even then, there had been times where there’d been no money for food. Dylan had been wealthy of course, but as his slave, I had lived a life devoid of luxury.
Inwardly, I scoffed a little at the supposedly consensual nature of this auction. If a man or a woman spent a hundred thousand dollars on a sex slave, surely they would make sure they got their money’s worth?
My hands clenched into fists at my side and I desperately wished for my Bowie knife.
***
“What happens if Alexander Hamilton doesn’t bid on me and someone else wins me?” I had asked, in the early planning stages of this operation.