The Duke

“Move!” one of the guards growls at her. Roseanne’s reverie is broken and she is back to reality. Her captors pull her along and despite the blindfold, she can feel lights shining down at her. The guards tied her to a pole and yanked the cloth off her eyes.

She is almost blinded by the bright lights and struggles to regain her vision. Blinking hard, Roseanne looks ahead and pants in fear.

Hundreds of alphas and nobles are present to see her humiliation. Their lustful gazes are trying to disrobe her and she holds her breath in fear. Never did she feel so scared and vulnerable, not even on the night when the coup took place. 

Roseanne is aware that she is wearing a plain white rug which all the human servants are forced to put on at the Royal Household. It is not revealing but the fabric is thin. She heard many rumors about these auctions and dreaded them. What if they pull her clothes off her and display her naked?

The thought of how they are going to humiliate her is frightening. She lowers her head, crying hard but Pyodor appears on stage and pulls her up as if she is a showpiece for display.

“Look at that beautiful face!” Pyodor declares to the guests. “Don’t you think this porcelain skin is worth millions of creds?”

The alphas and nobles cheer in unison. They have never seen such exquisite beauty before. Her long golden hair is shining under the lights. They are lusting after her small, delicate frame which they can easily crush under their weight. Her fair skin is bright and oozing with the glow of her youth. The girl is hardly eighteen and by her scent, she is untouched.

It only aroused their desires.

“We will start the bidding at ten million creds!” Pyodor yelled.

“Fifteen million!” one alpha offers. He is a large man in his sixties with a sleazy look which only scared Roseanne. 

“Twenty million!” A noble man yells. His beady eyes are on her and he is licking his lips. The man is already horny by the blonde beauty who is on sale.

“Thirty million!”

“Forty!”

“Forty five!”

All this time, the Duke is at the back, watching the drama. He does not bet but watches the girl. She is scared but there is a strong defiance in her. The Duke can feel their connection and he knows that she can feel it too. Every now and then, her head turns his way as if she is searching for something.

“Sixty million creds!” A Knight shouted. Everyone turns to stare at the man in metal armor. A chill runs down their spine as the man steps forward. His long dark hair is tied with a band and his dark tobacco stained lips curl into a smile. He is taller than most of the men in the room, almost at 6 feet 1 inch. His gaze is on Roseanne and she squirms in disgust.

She knows who he is. The Knight is Sir Stefan Vronsky, the best fighter in the Royal Army. 

He is also the most sadistic man she has ever known. This man is not only a natural born warrior but he is one of the men who mercilessly killed Alexei and his sisters that night.

“Sixty million?” Pyodor gasps. “Any other bidders?”

There will be none, Roseanne thinks in dismay. No one will go against this monster. If they do, he will kill them.

“Sixty million going once!” Pyodor counts. “Sixty million going twice! Sixty million going-”

“Two hundred million creds!”

Roseanne shuts her eyes, sobbing. Her heart is in agony, the anguish of losing her dignity and innocence is tormenting her. 

Pyodor gasps as a man steps forward. Stefan is outraged and is about to draw his sword when the man takes off his hat. The Duke’s eyes meet Stefan’s dark ones and the latter is shocked.

Scarlet. The Duke has scarlet eyes!

“L-Lycan!” he gasps and kneels in front of him. The Duke ignores him and glares at the men in the room.

Pyodor, who forgot that he was auctioning the girl off, regains his composure.

“Two hundred million going once! Two hundred million going twice! Two hundred million going thrice! Sold!”

It is a death sentence for Roseanne. She is shattered and now, she is going to become the slave of a Lycan who will treat her worse than trash. 

And then it hit her again. That scent...what is this?

It has grown stronger, moving towards her. She stays still, trying to to think. It is a seductive scent which is impossible to escape from. Could this be…?

A large shadow fell over her. She is too shocked to speak but slowly raises her head only to meet the most beautiful pair of eyes she has ever seen. 

Red eyes. A Lycan?

“Hello, my dear mate,” he flashes her a grin. It is not full of love but rather a mischievous one as if he found a new toy.

Who is this strange man? Roseanne is sure that she knows all the Lycans in the Royal Family. Then who is he? 

“Mate?” she whispers. This is impossible. She cannot be his mate! 

But the scent...he is her mate. No! I am in love with Alexei! She screams in her mind.

The man stands up and turns to the audience.

“If you’re done with the show, I’d like to take my mate home,” he declares. “Party’s over! Get going.”

No one dares to challenge him. Slowly, the crowd disperses, cursing at the Lycan. Stefan stares at the Duke who does not even give him a second glance. Instead, he unties Roseanne. Once she is freed, she collapses but his strong arms catch her.

“Don’t worry, my lover,” he whispers in her ear. “You are mine now.”

His voice sends a chill down her spine. Something is not right about this man. 

But she has no strength left and completely blacks out, overwhelmed by the ordeal. The Duke calmly watches his mate fall into a blissful sleep.

He came to this place for something else. Never in his wildest imagination did he think that he would run into his mate. And that too someone he knows very well.

The arena is empty except for him, Roseanne and Pyodor.

“Er...sir?” Pyodor begins. “About that two hundred million creds…”

“Ah yes,” the Duke nods. “Send the guards away.”

Pyodor motions his guards to leave while the Duke tends to his mate. He lays Roseanne tenderly on the ground as if she is as fragile as glass. His mate really is delicate and he will take good care of her. 

But there is something he must do first. The Duke then turns his attention towards Pyodor.

“Your payment,” he says, stepping towards the portly man. For some reason Pyodor is afraid of the man. This is the great Duke of Sloria. There is no doubt about it. He even spoke in the Slorian accent which is heavier than the Ezealyran one.

“Is here,” The Duke finishes, pointing at Pyodor’s chest. The trader is confused.

“I don’t understand sir-”

In a swift motion, the Duke plunges his hand into the man’s chest, creating a hole into it. Pyodor screams in pain as the Duke grabs his beating heart, squeezing it. Blood oozes out of Pyodor’s chest and he gurgles as he falls to the ground. The Duke rips out his heart in one quick pull and crushes it in front of the dying man.

The crimson blood splatters everywhere, staining the Duke’s clothes and skin. But he does not let a drop touch his beloved mate.

“Ezra!” he calls.

His carriage driver comes out of the shadows.

“Did you take care of the guards?” he asks the old man.

“They are being catered to, my lord,” Ezra replies with a bow.

“Good. I need a new set of clothes,” the Duke orders. “And tell one of the female fighters to cater to Roseanne. It will be a long journey ahead.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ezra said with a bow. The Duke takes off his bloodied coat and wraps it around Roseanne before carrying her into his arms, bridal style.

She is still unconscious but it is better this way. He can gaze at her for as long as he wants.

“Let’s go, my love,” he whispers in her ear. “Let’s go home.”