Auctioned To The Armitage Brothers, page 1
Auctioned To The Armitage Brothers
Daniella Wright
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
More By Dany
Four Daddies’ Secret Twins
Prologue
The philosophers had said for centuries that life would always find a way. What they failed to mention was that death would also find a way, when life itself was threatened by population increase, decimated oceans, demands that could not be met, and people starving across the globe because harvests failed and the beasts they relied upon could no longer be sustained on the dried out, wasted land. When everything turned to industry, and forests disappeared to make room for machines and factory farming, the Earth itself tried to warn the plague that had spread across it. The human plague. It tried to warn these usurpers that they would be the architects of their own destruction, when the rains turned to acid and the emissions began to cook the globe from the inside out.
But they did not listen, their greed only grew with the population. Much that was verdant and green turned to scorched earth beneath the heat and cold of global warming, and mothers struggled to find the food to feed the hungry mouths of their desperate young. Those with money only proceeded to flourish, leaving those without in the dirt. Governments grew more corrupt, providing for the wealthy whilst sentencing the poor to early graves and fractured lives.
The Earth had tried to warn them, that a day would come when She would be forced to turn the tables. Scientists and economists and doctors clamored to be heard, but the governments would not listen. When ecologists told the world they had twelve years to change the course of Earth as everyone knew it, those in power turned a blind eye and a deaf ear. They gave Earth no choice but to fight back.
When the Doomsday Virus spread across the globe, it hit so fast that the scientists had no time to find a cure. Patient Zero could not be found, and nobody knew what could have caused such a devastating virus with such terrifying swiftness. It started with a tickle in the back of the throat, mimicking the innocuous beginnings of a bad cold. Those who were suffering went out into the world, going about their daily business, spreading it through airborne bacteria without even realizing. From there, it percolated into the lungs, with victims coughing up blood a mere six hours after infection. It worked quickly and silently, spreading from person to person without pause.
Sepsis followed the first spasms of the lungs, the blood poisoned beyond repair. A mass breakdown of organs ensued, with total failure occurring up to twelve hours after first contact with the virus. Patients poured into hospitals, quicker than they could set up a quarantine, with the torrent of suffering victims too extensive to combat. Face masks and antiseptics couldn’t keep out the virus, which seeped through pores and passed from skin to skin.
When the doctors succumbed, there weren’t enough left to take their places. The hospitals went into lockdown, the rooms and hallways emptied of patients. In some establishments, they simply left the patients who had not contracted the virus to die, as there were no medical professionals to work the machinery and deliver the meds that they so desperately needed. Before long, the hospitals became vacant emblems of what the world had once been—a pinnacle of science and progression.
Martial law was implemented, to stem the flow of panic and terror that rippled through every city and town and village. The virus made no exceptions. Men, women, children, elderly… it took them all in one fell swoop. Within a few short weeks, in the summer of 2051, the world as it was known became a husk of its former self. There were dead in the street, being hauled up onto carts and carried away to incinerators. There were mothers crying over children they couldn’t save, and husbands clutching the limp bodies of recently deceased wives, in the hope that they might somehow be granted a miracle.
But Earth was all out of miracles. Almost. The people of this world had pushed Her to the brink of desperation, and she had sent a wave of destruction to cull the disease that had plagued her for centuries. They hadn’t listened, and this was their price for that ignorance.
In the decade that followed, two-thirds of the global population were wiped out, leaving the survivors to pick through the ashes of their new dawn and try to find a way to exist. With each year that passed, the virus mutated, eager to devour more of the innocent. In a state of national and global protection, it forced those who remained to hide away in a smattering of big cities, which had been enclosed by large biodomes, to keep out the virus that would kill them all, slowly but surely.
As it turned out, there were some people who were immune to the Doomsday Virus in its initial form and there were a rare few who survived infection, but both of those came with their own set of troubles. Those who were not infected and those who survived were discovered to be infertile or of low fertility, the Earth taking Her measures to ensure that the human plague never again brought her to the brink of annihilation.
The new way of life was restricted to these city pockets, each one under heavy military guard, to ensure that nobody tried to escape to the outside world, which would surely kill off the remaining human population. Defectors and deserters were shot on sight.
However, the old, creeping habits of the Earth’s bygone culture remained insipid within the new world order. Those who were wealthy or possessed strong genetics that would lead to successful fertility, were given special dispensations and were permitted to lead a harmonious life in the city’s most distinguished quarters, with the constant protection of the military in return for perpetual fertility tests and experiments. Meanwhile, those without wealth were made to scrape a living within the city limits, keeping within the walls to avoid the certain death beyond. And those who were cast out for disobedience or criminal activity… well, they were sent on a long walk outside the walls of the city, where they would succumb to the virus that brought down the old world. Nobody knew if they actually died, but nobody ever came back. That was evidence enough and offered up enough fear to keep the poor populace in line.
The Earth had taken Her revenge on the people who had sought to destroy her. And though it seemed as though She had failed in her task, as a portion of the population remained, there were those who believed that She was playing a far longer, more devious game than it seemed on first look. As another decade passed, and the sun rose on the 1st of April of 2061, there had not been a single child born in five years.
With every year that went by, it became clearer and clearer. By the time the next century came to an end, in 2161, there would be no humans left to tarnish the Earth’s flesh any longer.
The virus might have killed two-thirds of the population with targeted swiftness, but the Earth had put further measures in place, Her antibiotic of infertility edging through the globe, to rid Herself of all those who remained. One day, sooner than expected, someone on this planet would be the last. And when they dragged in their last breath, that would be it… the end of the human race.
1
Emma cowered in the storage room as fists pummeled on the door. She cradled her daughter to her chest, covering the girl’s ears in a vain attempt to keep her from the worst of her father’s abusive words and taunts. He was drunk, his voice strained from the moonshine he’d spent the afternoon drinking at the Ninth Circle—a secret dive bar on the edge of the ironically named Garden District, where Emma, her daughter, and her husband lived in a poky one-bed apartment. Chicago had been separated into these districts when the biodome went up, though there wasn’t a speck of grass to suggest why their district had been named that way. Emma suspected it was supposed to be a cruel joke, laid out by the wealthy who lived in the Halcyon District on the West Side of the city.
“You better come out of there, right now!” her husband, Greg, shouted through the door. “I’m giving you a warning. Come out now, or I’ll break this goddamn door right down. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll do it!”
Emma had heard these threats a thousand times before. Sometimes, he was bluffing. Sometimes, he wasn’t. She’d been on the receiving end of those pummeling fists more times than she cared to count, though she’d always protected little Poppy from the worst of it. Usually, Emma could sense when her husband would be coming home. She’d hear his heavy boots pounding on the stairs outside and have a few minutes to hide Poppy away. This time, however, she hadn’t been quick enough. Greg had been stealthy. He’d crept up to the apartment, his eyes red and bloodshot, his face twisted into a mask of fury and destruction. She’d had seconds to grab Poppy and lock them both in the back room, and she didn’t know if the door would hold.
“You’ll have to come out sometime!” Greg snapped, slamming his hands into the door once more.
Not if you fall asleep, first. Not that she’d be able to leave. She’d tried that, and she hadn’t gotten far. Poppy’s welfare meant everything to Emma. She would rather have gone back to the apartment time and time again, rather than watch her daughter starve, or risk the thugs who lurked in the alleys of the Garden District from hurting them both. Then, ther
“Emma, come out of there!” Greg howled. “I’m warning you!”
Emma clutched Poppy closer and buried her face in her daughter’s hair, inhaling the sweet, vanilla scent of her blonde curls.
How did I end up here? Once upon a time, Greg had been everything to her. Even though he wasn’t from a genetically strong line, she’d married him anyway, out of blind love. He’d been kind and sweet and attentive, and deeply protective of her. She, on the other hand, was from a strong line with potential fertility. Poppy was proof of that. When she’d started to feel sick, a year after they were married, and done the pregnancy test, she’d been over the moon to find that it was positive. Greg had, too. She’d had everything she’d ever wanted, and people congratulated her in the street when they saw her blossoming baby bump. Even after Poppy was born, things had been good.
And then, Greg had lost his job at the energy plant, after causing an accident that had almost wiped out a quarter of the city’s power. That sort of reputation wasn’t easy to shake, and though he’d tried and tried, he hadn’t been able to find work anywhere—not even in the meat recycling factory on the edge of the Garden District, where all the parts that nobody wanted to eat were ground up to make pink sludge, which was then formulated into saleable products to keep the people alive.
With an extra mouth to feed, Greg had blamed Poppy and Emma for his state, even though it had fallen to Emma to make ends meet with her nursing job. Greg was making some money in underhand dealings in the Garden District, loading trucks with suspect items and offloading stolen meat to the black market stalls. It stopped them going under completely, but whatever remained was spent on moonshine, meaning they never had anything left to save, so they might buy their way out of this life.
He blamed the sleepless nights for losing his job in the first place. He turned to alcohol and violence, starting with a slap to the face one night, and steadily progressing to the worst abuse that Emma could ever have imagined. The man she’d known, the man she’d loved, had disappeared. And he’d been replaced with a monster. He’d always apologize afterwards, no matter what it was he’d done, but she’d learned a long time ago that his apologies weren’t sincere; the attacks always happened again. Whether it was him forcing himself on her in the middle of the night, clamping his hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. Or whether it was a punch to the side of the head because she hadn’t had the stamps to buy washing powder that week. Or whether it was a kick to the stomach, over and over, because she’d dared to turn away when he tried to kiss her. It always happened again.
Now, Poppy was five, and Emma had spent the last four years ensuring that no harm came to her sweet girl. Greg had tried to hit her a handful of times, but Emma had always managed to get between them, even if it had meant a blow to the face, or the chest, or the abdomen. Even if she’d had to drag him away to the bedroom, and let him fuck her in the most vile, violent way, Emma had done everything she could to keep her girl safe. And she always would.
On the wealthy side of town, Andrew Armitage paced the floor of his father’s study. He stopped to glance out of the window, as the hazy sun glanced through the biodome and made the lawns gleam like emeralds. He knew he was lucky, but it had been a long time since he’d felt fortunate. Barely a year ago, his wife had been taken away from him, leaving his child without a mother and him without the love of his life. Since then, nothing had been the same. His heart was broken, and he didn’t know if there was a way to fix it.
Not that he spoke about it much. He couldn’t bring himself to. If he allowed himself to fully feel the brunt of that heartbreak, he knew he would crumble, and he just couldn’t. Alfie, his little boy, needed him. More than that, Alfie needed to see his father happy, to stop his own little heart from being overwhelmed with sadness. But Andrew found it harder and harder, as the days passed without her, to find the energy to put on a show.
“It’s not a good idea,” he said, turning to face his father, George Armitage.
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” his father replied. “You’re clearly struggling, and none of the household have the time to care for Alfie. You are in need of assistance; there is no shame in that.”
“What, so you’re just going to let some stranger waltz in and take care of Alfie? I don’t think so, Father.”
“You could consider it.” Andrew turned toward his brother, Freddie, who sat on the chaise against the far wall of the luxurious study. “No pressure or anything, but it might be useful. Even if they only looked after him a couple days a week, just to take some of the strain off. You know I’d jump at the chance, but I’ve got so many meetings, that it’s hard to find the time.”
“Same here,” Jason, Andrew’s cousin, chimed in. He had been a part of this household for so long that he might as well have been a brother to Andrew. They were close enough, sharing that unspoken bond. Still, Andrew couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How can they be so eager to just pass Alfie off to some unknown, straight off the street?
“They could be psychos or murderers or anything, Father,” Andrew protested.
“They will be properly vetted, whomever they may be, I can assure you of that.” George smiled sympathetically. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, my dear boy, but you need help. There is nothing more I can say about it. If you continue on as you are, you will drown in your responsibilities, and I won’t see that happen. You already look sick.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic. Things are fine as they are.”
“Let us see, shall we?” George sighed. “I won’t make any enquiries as of yet, but things have to improve, Andrew. You’re like a ghost, wandering these halls. We’ve all noticed it, and your mother is worried sick about you.”
“Tell her not to be. I’m fine.” Andrew turned his gaze back out at the lawns, picturing the days he’d spent with Louisa—the wife he’d lost. She’d always loved the rose gardens, always stopping to smell the fresh blooms when the warmer months came. Not that it got particularly cold underneath the biodome. He remembered her sitting on the bench by the fountain, her belly swollen with Alfie. She’d been so tired, but she’d still managed a smile when he’d come to sit beside her, cuddling her into his chest. I miss you… He missed her every day, especially when he looked into Alfie’s eyes, and saw his mother’s eyes staring right back.
“You’re not,” Freddie said.
“Yeah, man, you’re really not doing good,” Jason added.
Andrew sighed, and kept looking at the spot where he’d walked with Louisa so often. Maybe they’re right… maybe I’m not fine. But he wasn’t about to let some stranger just walk in and take Alfie from him, not if he could help it.
2
Emma often wondered if a day would come when Greg went too far. If he killed her, she knew she’d have no way to keep Poppy safe. The best she could hope for was that, if she died, Greg would sell Poppy to one of the wealthy families, where she could live out her life in peace, away from her abusive father. But she knew she couldn’t rely on that, nor would she give him the chance. As long as she stayed, and she was careful, she knew she could control Greg. Today had been a terrible slip-up on her part, but she wasn’t about to let that happen again.
She’d thought about leaving again, but it seemed like an impossible task. If she took Poppy, Greg would take everything, and cast them both out for good. He didn’t care about them. He hated that he had three mouths to feed instead of just his own. In some ways, Emma knew he might prefer it if she ran again, because then he could bolt the doors and never let her back inside. He’d let them both perish, and he wouldn’t give a damn about it. People didn’t last long on these streets, whether they were children or not.
