Page 139 of The Auction Block

I rest my elbows on the desk and tangle my fingers in my hair. Blake is going to give me more reasons for therapy. This was supposed to be a small event. No more than two hundred attendees. He handed me a guest list this morning, with close to a thousand and informed me he'll be selling tickets to late comers at the door. We know how important this event is for him, so we're trying to be lenient, but he's pushing my patience for what I will and won't tolerate.

I sigh, leaning forward to rest my head on the cool surface of my desk. The framed picture to the right is a sketch of Blake, Sorina, and I. She drew it, framed it, and gave it to me after dinner. It's my most prized possession.

Grabbing the frame, I stare down at the picture like sketch. Sorina has a gift. I'd love to enroll her in some art classes once we're on safer ground. Blake bought her a shit load of canvases, paints, and other stuff yesterday while he, Dresden and Vlad ran out. Somehow, he sweet-talked his way into going without me. I was a nervous wreck the entire time.

Sitting the picture back, I quietly make my way to Sorina's room. Her door’s open, and the soft beat of bagpipes drifts to my ears. She's taken a liking to the Celtic style music Jameson introduced her to the other day. She's standing in front of her easel, a pallet of paint in her left hand, brush in the other.

Her movements are small and precise as she adds colors to her work. She's fluid and graceful, no hesitation, or second-guessing. We received her paperwork this morning. She's only thirteen and wise beyond her years. Her folks sold her when she was ten. Regardless of her maturity, I've made her take sessions everyday with Saladinya.

She deserves the best of everything, and all the help she can get to overcome her time in the rings. I don't want her to end up like me. Angry, bitter, resentful . . . she deserves so much better. She and Blake both do. I still don't understand why they're willing to settle for me, but I'm selfish enough not to change a damn thing.

Sorina turns around, meeting my eyes and smiles. She sets her tools down and skips to the stereo, cutting off the music.

"What are you painting today?"

"You, actually," she says, moving to block the canvas.

"Can I see?" I sit on the edge of her bed.

Her lips curve downward, she taps her toe, something she does when embarrassed.

"I'm afraid you'll be angry."

"Sorina, I could never be angry with you for your art. This is your therapy, the way music is for me," I say, tilting my head to the side.

"I heard Mr. Dresden say Blake is your therapy," she blurts outs.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Dresden!

"In a way, yes, he is," I say, heat rushing to my cheeks.

"Why do you always blush when someone mentions him?"

"Because I'm not used to having feelings for people, Sorina. I care for Blake very much, and for me . . . it causes a very wide range of emotions I'm still struggling with."

"Oh," she glances at me with a shy smile.

"Now, may I see your painting?"

Slowly, she steps to the side. My eyes move across the canvas, my hand flying to cover my mouth. In the top corner is my neck, down to a little past my collarbone with the Taurus brand prominent. On the other half of the canvas is a mural of my back . . . each scar in grave detail. I swallow the lump in my throat, tears stinging my eyes.

My breath moves unsteadily in and out of my lungs, as I stand, involuntarily moving closer to the painting. I blink, spilling the moisture down my cheeks.

"Can I call you Mom?" Sorina says, startling me.

I whip my head around to face her. She's so young and frightened. It's like staring in a mirror, my chest tightening, remembering the pain and anguish that consumed me at that age. "Is that what you want to call me?"

"Yes. Blake says I can call him Dad too, but I want to be able to do that with both of you, not just one or the other."

I open my arms, and she darts into them, nuzzling her head against my chest. "Of course, you can kiddo. Whatever works best for you."

"Okay . . . Mom."

My heart constricts. It's a title I never envisioned belonging to me. The word from Sorina's lips is music to my ears, and happiness overwhelms me. I press my lips to her hair as the faint echo of footsteps stops outside her door.

"There's my girls," Blake says in a deep voice.

"Dad," Sorina exclaims, darting from my arms to his.