The House of Taurus is high-end with a sterile edge that leaves me cold. It’s unwelcoming to Liam’s inviting style that urged Faye and me to spread out sketchbooks and drawing pencils, snack trays left half-eaten on the table as we talked fashion and friendship. I can’t imagine using this space for such an afternoon of freedom, especially since Mr. Bordeaux sent my ladies away the first chance he got.

Loren comes to a stop in the middle of the great room and stands at attention, hands at his back as he watches the double doors I assume lead into his master’s private quarters. “After Master Bordeaux instructs you to stand, you’re to follow behind him to the dining room, head bowed and hands at your back. When he’s seated, you’ll kneel at his side the way he taught you and wait for further instruction.” Loren meets my gaze, and I’m taken aback by the near translucence of his gray eyes. They’re set deep, fringed with thick black lashes, and almost colorless from the light pouring through the windows.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks.

Where do I start? I’m trying to form a reply—scrambling to grab hold of the many questions firing through my synapses—when those double doors across from us open. I drop to the floor with my heart pounding a furious rhythm in my chest.

“Did you explain the rules to her?”

“Yes, Master Bordeaux. She knows what to expect.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Bordeaux takes a step closer, holding out a hand. “Rise, my queen.”

I do, careful not to meet his eyes. As he turns his back to me, issuing a command to follow him, nervous energy flutters in my belly. I clasp my sweaty hands at my back and keep my head down, each obedient step taking me further away from that sterile space that is the House of Taurus and closer to the comfort of Liam’s presence.

As we descend to the first floor, I can’t help but speculate on what my life will be like if Mr. Bordeaux wins the auction. Will he treat me like this for the rest of my life, nothing more than an obedient slave he keeps stowed away in a closet-sized room, silenced until he lets me speak?

I’m fighting the burn of vomit in my throat when we reach the dining room. Threads of conversation hit me all at once, and I sense the eleven other men—and my ladies, who, from my peripheral, are seated in their designated chairs.

As I kneel next to Mr. Bordeaux, the din of voices falls silent, chairs scrape into place, and everyone settles in for the evening. But my world narrows only to the floor in front of me, and the man in the suit to my right.

“Why is the queen kneeling during dinner?” Liam’s voice falls over me like a warm blanket.