Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Irina’s POV

I hit the ground hard.

Rough hands released my arms and I collapsed onto cold concrete, palms scraping against grit and filth. My body folded inward automatically—small, defensive, broken.

Footsteps circled me. Heavy. Deliberate.

I looked up.

Maxim.

No.

The air left my lungs in a rush. My heart stopped, then started again too fast, slamming against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest.

"What are you doing here?" The words scraped out of my throat, barely audible.

He smiled. That smile I knew too well—the one that meant pain was coming.

"Did you think I’d let someone else have you first?" His hand shot out, fingers clamping around my jaw. He yanked my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I made a promise, little rabbit. I always keep my promises."

Terror flooded through me, cold and paralyzing.

His grip tightened until I felt my teeth grinding together.

"I’m going to be your first," he said conversationally. "Right here. Right now. Before they put you on that stage."

"No—"

The word barely left my mouth before he shoved me backward. My head cracked against the concrete wall. Stars burst across my vision.

When I could see again, he was already moving toward me.

I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, my broken body screaming in protest. My back hit the corner of the cell. Nowhere left to go.

Maxim crouched down in front of me. His hand caught my throat—not squeezing, just holding. A promise of what he could do.

"Don’t fight," he murmured. "It’ll only make this worse."

His other hand moved to the neckline of my dress.

Something inside me snapped.

I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his wrist.

Hard.

The taste of blood flooded my mouth—copper and salt and rage. I bit down harder, grinding my teeth until I felt skin tear.

Maxim roared.

His fist connected with the side of my head. The impact sent me sprawling, my teeth finally releasing their grip.

I rolled away from him, gasping, choking on his blood. My vision swam but I kept moving, kept crawling until I hit the opposite corner.

I pressed myself against the wall, arms wrapped around my knees, shaking so hard my bones rattled.

Maxim stood slowly. Blood dripped from the wound on his wrist, dark and thick. He stared at it for a moment, then at me.

His expression was almost amused.

"You bit me." He laughed—sharp and cold. "After everything, you still have some fight left."

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his wrist, his movements unhurried. Casual.

"Go ahead," he said. "Run. Scream. Fight. It doesn’t matter."

He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold.

"I’ve already told everyone you belong to me." His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. "When they put you on that stage, no one will bid. Who would dare disobey future alpha’s claim?"

The words hit like physical blows.

"You won’t be sold," he continued. "You’ll become house property. And I’ll visit whenever I want. Use you however I want. For as long as I want."

My stomach turned to ice.

"But you rejected me!" The words tore from my throat, raw and desperate. "You said you didn’t want me!"

"I don’t want you as my mate," Maxim corrected, examining his bloody wrist. "I could never have someone like you as my luna."

He looked at me then. Really looked at me.

"But I told you I’d destroy you, Irina. And I will."

The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence crashed down.

I sat there in the corner, blood still coating my tongue, and finally let myself cry.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears tracking down my face, dripping off my chin onto the ruined black dress.

My sleeve hung torn and useless, exposing bruised skin beneath.

Time passed. I didn’t track it.

Eventually, the door opened again.

Three guards this time. Two men and a woman, all wearing the same bored expression.

"Get up," the woman ordered.

I didn’t move.

She sighed, nodded to the men. They stepped forward and hauled me to my feet.

"You need to be presentable," the woman said, already turning away. "Come on."

They dragged me out of the cell, down another corridor. Everything looked the same—gray walls, harsh lighting, the smell of despair.

We stopped at a different room. Smaller. A sink in the corner and a chair in the center.

They shoved me toward the sink.

"Wash your face," the woman commanded. "Get the blood off."

I turned on the tap with shaking hands. The water ran cold, almost painful against my skin. I splashed it over my face, watched red swirl down the drain.

When I looked up at the cracked mirror above the sink, I barely recognized the person staring back.

Hollow eyes. Sunken cheeks. Purple bruises blooming across pale skin.

A ghost.

The woman appeared behind me, holding another dress. This one was different—cheap white fabric, thin and revealing.

"Put this on," she said, tossing it at me.

I caught it automatically. Stared at it.

"Now," she snapped.

The men turned around, giving me a mockery of privacy.

I peeled off the ruined black dress with numb fingers. The white one slipped over my head easily—too easily. It barely reached mid-thigh and the neckline plunged low enough to show the tops of my breasts.

Auction clothing.

"Better," the woman said, circling me. "Could use makeup to cover those bruises but there’s no time."

She grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the door.

We walked through more corridors. The sound grew louder with each step—voices, laughter, the crackle of a microphone.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

They stopped outside a door. Heavy. Metal. Beyond it, I could hear someone speaking. An announcer.

"...sold to number forty-seven for three thousand!"

Applause. Cheers.

The woman checked something on her clipboard, then looked at me.

"You’re next."

The door opened.

Blinding light hit my face. I stumbled forward, guided by rough hands on my shoulders.

A stage. I was on a stage.

Below, faces stared up at me. Dozens of them. Men mostly, but some women too. All watching. Evaluating.

Buying.

The announcer—a heavy-set man in an expensive suit—grabbed my arm and pulled me to the center of the stage.

"And now," his voice boomed through speakers, echoing off walls I couldn’t see past the lights, "we have a special item."

He yanked my arm up, displaying me like merchandise.

"Fresh. Young. Completely untrained."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"From the Iron Thorn pack," he continued. "A rejected mate. Omega scum."

The words hit like stones.

"Let’s start the bidding—"