Chapter 37: The Winning Bid
The polished floor seemed to tilt under Aurora’s heels as she re-entered the main hall. The murmur of conversation, the clink of crystal, it all felt amplified, electric. She could still feel the ghost of Callum’s mouth on hers, the heat of his hands on her skin. A server passed with a tray of champagne flutes; she took one, the cold stem a necessary anchor.
“There you are,” said a melodic voice. Elena, the gallery owner hosting the auction, slid an arm through Aurora’s. “I saw your moment with Ian Croft.Beautifully executed. He’s a parasite with a pen.” She guided Aurora toward the auction room. “Now, come. The main event is starting. And your Viking looks like he’s about to set fire to something.”
Callum stood near the entrance to the auction floor, surrounded by two older men in suits. His smile was tight, professional, but his eyes scanned the crowd until they found her. The intensity in them hadn’t dimmed. It had banked, like coals.
The auction room was a theatre of muted wealth. Rows of velvet chairs faced a podium illuminated by a single spotlight. Aurora and Callum took seats near the back, a compromise between participation and escape. His thigh pressed against hers through the layers of fabric, a constant, warm pressure.
The auctioneer began with predictable fare: a luxury safari, a diamond necklace, a signed jersey from a retiring tennis legend. Paddles rose with discreet flicks of wrists. Numbers climbed in a sedate, impersonal rhythm. Aurora half-listened, her mind replaying the feel of marble against her bare back.
“Lot 47,” the auctioneer announced, his voice taking on a curator’s reverence. “A first edition of Jane Austen’s Emma, published in 1816. Three volumes, as originally issued. Remarkable condition.”
Aurora’s breath hitched. Her fingers, resting on her own programme, went still. It was a reflexive, physical response, a reader’s yearning made flesh. She leaned forward slightly, as if pulled by a string.
The auctioneer began the bidding at ten thousand. It climbed quickly, in increments of two. A paddle rose in the front.Another from the middle. The pristine books, displayed on a stand, seemed to glow under the light.
“Twenty-two thousand,” the auctioneer called. “Do I see twenty-four?”
Aurora felt a small, private ache. It was a beautiful thing, wholly out of reach. She settled back into her chair, a soft sigh escaping her. It was just a thing. A wonderful, impossible thing.
Callum’s arm shifted beside her. His hand, which had been resting on his knee, came up. He didn’t have a paddle. He simply raised his hand, his voice clear and calm in the hushed room.
“Fifty.”
A collective, soft gasp rippled through the rows ahead of them.Heads turned. The previous bid had been twenty-four. Aurora’s own head snapped toward him. His profile was unreadable, focused on the podium.
The auctioneer blinked. “I have fifty thousand.A significant jump. Sir, thank you. Do I see fifty-two?”
The bidder in the front, a man with silver hair, half-turned, his eyes narrowing. He gave a curt nod.
“Fifty-two to the gentleman in the third row. Now at fifty-four?”
Callum didn’t hesitate. “Seventy.”
Aurora’s hand flew to his arm, her fingers digging into the black wool of his tuxedo jacket. “Callum,” she whispered, the word a strained breath. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t look at her. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Reading the room.”
The silver-haired man scowled, consulted with a woman beside him, and shook his head sharply.
“Seventy thousand going once... twice...” The gavel fell with a decisive crack. “Sold to bidder number 309!”
A wave of applause broke out. Aurora sat frozen, the sound muffled as if she were underwater.Seventy thousand. For a book. For her book.
Callum finally turned to her. The artificial cool was gone from his eyes, replaced by a warm, unsettling certainty. He leaned in, his lips brushing her temple. His voice was low, for her alone. “Don’t look so shocked, sweetheart. I pay attention.”
The air left her lungs. He’d noticed. He’d noticed her dog-eared paperback of Persuasion on the patio table. Her rant about the film adaptation of Sense and Sensibility. The Austen quote she’d scribbled on a notepad and left on her fridge. He’d filed it away, this fragment of her heart, and he had just laid claim to it with a brutal, undeniable gesture.
Before she could form a word—protest, gratitude, utter disbelief—his other hand, which had been resting on the back of her chair, moved. It slid beneath the open back of her dress, his palm warm and rough against the bare skin of her spine. It was a possessive, intimate counterpoint to the public spectacle. A secret held in a room full of people.
She shuddered, every nerve ending alight.
“Callum—”
“We’re leaving,” he murmured into her hair, his hand still firmly on her back.“Now. Unless you want to bid on a yacht.”
He stood, drawing her up with him. The room’s attention was a palpable weight. He nodded politely at the auctioneer, at Elena who gave them a knowing, feline smile, and then he was guiding her out, his hand a brand at the base of her spine.
He moved them through the lingering crowds with a footballer’s precision, his grip on her back both a guide and an announcement. Whispers trailed them like wake behind a ship. He didn’t stop until they reached a quiet annex where a discreet attendant presented the book in a slim, black case.
“Your acquisition, Mr. Nordskov.”
Callum took it without glancing, tucking the case under his arm. “The library here. Is it open?”
“For guests, yes. Down the hall, last door on the left.”
The library was a relic of old money, all dark wood, emerald-green lamps, and the dense, sweet smell of aged paper. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held leather-bound volumes. The door clicked shut behind them, swallowing the distant gala noise.
Aurora finally found her voice. “Seventy thousand pounds.”
He set the case on a large oak table. “It was seventy-two, with the premium.”
“That’s not funny.” She turned to face him, her heels silent on the Persian rug. The room felt like a containment field, compressing everything between them. “Why would you do that?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He opened the case, carefully lifting out the first volume. The binding was worn but dignified. He held it with a surprising tenderness.
“You sighed,” he said, his eyes on the book. “When the bidding passed twenty-four thousand. It was this tiny, devastated little sound.” He finally looked up, green eyes pinning her in the lamplight. “I hated it.”
“So you bought it?” Her laugh was brittle, confused. “Callum, that’s insane. You can’t just… buy a sigh.”
“I can.” He stepped closer. “I wanted to. I watched you eviscerate that reporter with stats you memorized for fun. I saw you walk away from me in that alcove like you held every card.” He placed the book back in the case. “And then you sighed over a book like your heart was breaking. It was the most real thing in that whole plastic room.”
His honesty was a physical thing in the quiet. It stripped away the glamour, leaving something raw and unnerving.
“It’s too much,” she whispered.
“It’s not for you.” He closed the distance, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “It’s for me. So I never have to hear that sound again.”
The logic was flawed, beautiful, and entirely his. She leaned into his touch, her glasses slightly askew. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours.” The words were simple, stark. “Now read to me.”
“What?”
He turned her gently, walking her backward until her shoulders met the solid edge of a bookshelf. The old leather and wood scent enveloped her. “Your favourite passage. From Emma.” His hands settled on her hips, warm through the silk.
“You haven’t even read it.”
“I don’t care.” His mouth was at her ear, his voice a low vibration. “I want to hear it in your voice. Right now.”
He was giving her the book and taking control all at once.The contradiction thrilled her. She fumbled with the case, her fingers trembling as she opened it and lifted the first volume. The pages were soft, creamy. She found a chapter near the middle, where Emma’s cleverness fails her.
“‘If I loved you less,’” she began, her voice unsteady, “‘I might be able to talk about it more.’” She felt him go utterly still behind her. His breath warmed her neck. “‘But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me.’”
His hands slid from her hips. One palm pressed flat against her stomach, pulling her back into the solid heat of him. The other traveled up, over the delicate ribs, his touch tracing the path of her spine through the open back of her dress. He wasn’t rushing.He was mapping her.
“Keep going,” he murmured, his lips against her shoulder.
She tried. The words blurred on the page. “‘I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman…’” His fingers skimmed the side of her breast, a feather-light circuit that stole her breath. The book dipped in her hands.
He took it from her, marking the page with a finger and setting it safely on a shelf. Then his hands were back on her, turning her to face him. There was no smile now, only a focused hunger.
“Again,” he said, his voice rough. “That first part.”
Her mind was static. “If I loved you less…”
He kissed her, swallowing the rest of the quote. It wasn’t gentle. It was deep and claiming, a translation of the words into action. His hands framed her face, then slid down her neck, over her bare shoulders. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers.
“That’s the one,” he breathed. “That’s the one I bought.”