Chapter 1 – The Auction of Flowers

The blindfold was silk. Expensive, perfumed, and threaded with rose petals. It should have felt soft, but to Seraphine it was a noose, strangling her with every step she took.

Her wrists were bound with velvet cuffs as she was led down a hall that smelled of smoke, wine, and roses left too long in the sun. Laughter echoed from ahead—low, masculine, predatory. The kind of sound that made her skin crawl and her stomach knot.

She stumbled, and the hand gripping her elbow tightened. “Careful, flower,” the handler whispered in her ear, voice dripping with cruel amusement. “Bruises fetch a higher price, but scars? Scars are messy.”

Seraphine’s jaw clenched. She wanted to spit in his face, to tear off the blindfold and run until her lungs burned. But the last time she had tried to fight, she’d been shown what disobedience earned: hours locked in a cold stone cell with whispers bleeding through the walls, whispers of what happened to the others who hadn’t learned quickly enough.

And so, tonight, she walked. Silent. Hating.

The doors creaked open.

Heat hit her skin first. A heavy wave of bodies, perfumes, colognes, and greed. Then sound—the sudden hush of voices, followed by murmurs of approval. She could feel the weight of their gazes pressing into her as the handler guided her to the center.

The blindfold was ripped away.

Seraphine flinched at the blinding light. When her vision steadied, she saw them: rows of masked faces staring from velvet-lined balconies. Men in black, women in jewels, all of them hidden behind ornate masks—golden, feathered, jeweled, grotesque. Their eyes gleamed through the holes, hungry and amused.

The hall was a theater, designed for spectacle. Marble floors, a domed ceiling painted with angels, and in the center—her.

The handler’s voice rang out: “Lot Thirty-Seven. A rare specimen. Untouched. Wild. A flower worth caging.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, followed by the clinking of glasses.

Seraphine’s chest tightened. She stood tall, refusing to tremble, even as eyes raked her bare shoulders and thin silk dress. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing fear.

“Let the bidding begin,” the handler announced.

Numbers rose. Voices shouted from balconies. One hundred thousand. Two hundred. Five. The crowd buzzed like bees drunk on blood.

Seraphine’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. They were selling her. Just like that. She was no one. Nothing. A flower to be plucked and displayed.

Then it happened.

The hall went silent.

From the highest balcony, a figure stepped forward. His mask was unlike the others. While theirs glittered with jewels, his was wrought of black metal shaped into thorns. Silver edges gleamed like blades. The mask covered half his face, but his eyes—icy, glacial blue—burned down at her like knives.

The Thorn King.

The name rushed through the crowd in whispers. Even the handler lowered his head, trembling.

“I’ll take her.”

His voice was deep, smooth, but edged with steel. It was not a request. It was a decree.

The handler stammered, “M-my lord, the bidding—”

“Is over.”

Silence. Not a soul dared defy him.

The Thorn King leaned against the balcony rail, gaze locked on Seraphine. Not once did he blink. Not once did his attention waver. It was as though the entire Garden, the crowd, the masks—none of it existed. Only her.

Seraphine felt her throat close. For the first time, fear licked at her spine—not from the crowd, not from the sale, but from the way that man looked at her. Possessive. Final. Like he had already taken her apart and pieced her back together in his mind.

Her hands clenched into fists. She hated him. Whoever he was, whatever power he wielded, she hated him for claiming her so easily.

His lips curved beneath the mask. He had seen it—the spark in her eyes, the fire she tried to bury.

And he liked it.

The handler bowed, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Y-yes, my lord. She is yours.”

The crowd erupted in murmurs. Some jealous. Some relieved. None daring to challenge.

Seraphine lifted her chin. If he thought she’d bow, if he thought she’d break, he was wrong. She wasn’t a flower to bloom for him. She was thorns.

And if he touched her, he would bleed.

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