Sold To The Dragons (A BBW Paranormal Romance Book 1) (2 page)

Becoming even a bit mistier, I nodded at Noah. "I'll try my very best to write. I promise I'll check in on you boys somehow."

I was more determined than ever to keep a brave face, but my eyes really were not cooperating.

Afraid I might upset the boys with full-tilt tears, I blinked back the moisture in my eyes, or at least tried my best to, while swallowing a giant lump in my throat. "Now, I have to go soon. Have to go start my happy new life. My new adventure."

Trying to muster a smile, I wondered if I was laying it on too thick. But the boys' faces didn't register any dubiousness, and in fact, their serious expressions seemed to soften a little.

Pleased, I continued. "So now, I want you boys to each give me a kiss on the cheek, and then I want you to go eat. I want you to go eat until your bellies are stuffed full to bursting."

While everyone in the crowd continued talking among themselves, the boys did as I'd asked and each gave me a kiss and a few more squeezes before heading off to the refreshments table, where my father was already stuffing his face with meat and cheese, dropping the pieces into his mouth with his head tipped back.

Silently praying that they'd be all right, and that now free from hunger, they'd both have happy lives, I watched the boys as they went. But within seconds, a strong hand grabbed one of my own, startling me.

Fixing me with a piercing gaze, the man in the dark gray suit stood on the step that led up to the platform. "Come with me."

*

Once outside the auction hall, the tall man with the dark gray suit escorted me to a sleek black car with a driver sitting behind the wheel. I got in the back, trying not to gape. Cars were rare in my town; only the mayor, the chief judge, the auctioneer, and maybe a dozen other people owned them. And none of the cars looked like this. None of them had paint so glossy and chrome door handles so shiny. None of them were driven by drivers with black jackets, bright white pressed shirts, and smart black caps. None of them were driven by drivers at all.

I wondered how far we'd be driving. The few asphalt-paved roads in town weren't bad; the mayor had seen to that. Like most mayors in our area, he took pride in having at least a few decent roads similar to the ones that had existed hundreds of years earlier. But outside of our town, until a person reached the next town, most of the roads were just dirt tracks. Any of them that were paved were several decades, even as much as ten decades, old and literally turning to dust.

Or, so I'd heard. I'd never actually been outside of Quincy, my town. Most people hadn't. I'd only even been in a car three different times before. One of those times, for a high school graduation present, my mother had arranged for me and my best friend to take a several-mile ride in the town's only cab. We went from my house across town to see a beautiful fountain that we hardly ever got to see because it was so far to walk. And then we'd walked home. The one-way car ride had cost my mother an entire week's wages, but it had been a thrill.

In other towns and cities, riding in cars was a bit more common. In a city about a hundred miles south of us, they actually still manufactured cars, at a rate of a few hundred per year. This city was called Detroit, same as it had been called hundreds of years earlier. And as far as anyone knew, this was the only place on the planet that still produced cars and the parts for them. I'd heard that about half of the city's ten thousand or so residents worked at the automotive plant.

One thing the residents of Detroit weren't great at producing was fertile women. Their rate of fertile women had been steadily decreasing over the past couple of hundred years, as had their birth rates, of course, making their population dwindle. Just the same as every other town, it seemed. And with most of the rare fertile women being sold off to wealthy men from far-off parts, the only thing keeping our towns and cities from being bereft of any children at all was the women deemed "possibly fertile" who were never sold and later produced children, as well as the very occasional woman deemed "completely infertile" who'd later go on to have a surprise child or two.

But one thing was certain. If things went on the way they were, if the fertility rate continued to decline, the earth wouldn't have any human inhabitants left at all within a hundred or two hundred years. Maybe three hundred at the very most.

The driver pulled away from the auction hall and began down the main paved road leading out of town. I looked out the window, aware that this might be the last time I'd be seeing my home place.

I really wasn't leaving much behind. My best friend had been sold at auction the previous year, and I'd never heard from her again. I doubted I'd miss my father. We'd always had a rocky relationship, and things had only deteriorated after my mother's passing two years earlier.

However, I knew I'd miss my two younger brothers intensely. Rowdy and rambunctious, they could definitely get on my nerves at times, without a doubt. Though since our mother's passing, I'd become like something of a mother to them, and I knew I'd miss the times when they'd suddenly throw their arms around me and thank me for cooking a meal or tidying their rooms.

I'd miss kissing them both on the cheek each night before they went off to bed. I supposed the kind, widowed neighbor lady who looked after them for free when I went to sell vegetables at the market every day would be their mother figure now. My father was intending to marry her, a decision I supported. He seemed to be less cantankerous with a woman in his life.

I likely wouldn't miss the town of Quincy. I wouldn't miss the crumbling brick buildings and the dilapidated one-story houses. I wouldn't miss seeing elderly folks begging for food in the streets. I wouldn't miss the electricity that flickered on maybe two times a month, whenever the old mill that powered it was up and running properly. Wherever I was going, it had to be someplace better. At least, I hoped it would be. It could hardly be any worse.

One night after my father had thumbed through a disintegrating old history book he'd bartered an egg for, he'd declared that the conditions the citizens of our town lived in were similar to a place called Soviet Russia that had existed in the twentieth century. "Only ten times worse," he'd said. I wasn't awfully familiar with Soviet Russia, having only learned tiny bits and pieces about it in school, but that sounded about right.

Things hadn't always been like this. Several hundred years earlier, living conditions had been much better. Most people living in what had been called The United States of America had enough to eat on a daily basis. The nation had been an actual nation with one central government; it hadn't been a scattering of self-governed towns and city-states who just happened to share the same landmass, as was the case now.

Most families had had at least one car to use, sometimes even two or three. People hadn't had to make a pair of factory-made blue jeans last five years. Medical care had been much, much better. Entire towns didn’t have to get by on only ten doses of penicillin to last the community medical center an entire year. I knew all this from History class in school, and also from dusty old books I'd read in the tiny town library.

Things had changed during the time of The Great Freeze. Which actually wasn't a completely accurate title for the event, because things had gotten hot and stayed hot much longer than the cold lasted. The average temperature of all cities around the globe had suddenly increased by twenty to thirty degrees year-round. Crops failed. Many, many people died from heat and dehydration. This had gone on for several years. Then, just as suddenly as the heat had come, everything had frozen. All remaining lakes, rivers, and streams on earth turned to solid ice.

Populations of entire cities froze to death or starved. When everything slowly began thawing a year later, most of the world's human inhabitants were dead. Only the very hardiest souls had survived.

And as those folks tried to salvage what little was left of civilization, they noticed that women weren't conceiving at an average rate. Whether that was from the physical trauma of enduring the heat and cold, or whether that was somehow connected to nuclear fallout from so many reactors across the globe failing and releasing their contents, nobody knew. And still nobody knew. All people knew was that over the previous several hundred years, fertility rates had continued to decline steadily.

But a sharp decline in fertility rates hadn't been the only drastic change in civilization around the time of The Freeze. Actual, living dragons had begun to stalk the earth. At first, people thought they were hallucinating. But then, as women were kidnapped and new towns were leveled by dragon fire, the survivors of The Freeze had come to the grim realization that they were now sharing the earth with dragons.

However, as our local history books told, after maybe five years or so, the dragons stopped attacking. They stopped kidnapping. At least, for the most part. Every couple of decades, someone would catch a glimpse of a dragon flying high above Quincy. I'd even spotted one myself once.

Also, every couple of decades, we'd hear news that a few women had been kidnapped from Detroit, or other neighboring towns. Quincy, though, had always remained safe from dragons, at least in recent history. The last dragon raid and kidnapping anyone could remember had occurred over a hundred years earlier.

I just hoped there were no dragons wherever I was going.

The man in gray who'd purchased me didn't say anything until we'd passed the town boundaries of Quincy. But once we did, and we were bumping down a badly cracked paved road in the sleek black car, he looked at me with something like a hint of tenderness or sympathy softening his stern expression just a bit.

"Are you...are you doing all right?"

The question, in addition to the hesitant way he'd asked it, juxtaposed with his mostly-stern look, struck me as almost comical for some reason, and I actually stifled a laugh. Because, after all, what did it even matter if I was or wasn't doing all right? I'd been bought like a slave. It wasn't as if I could just go back home if I
wasn't
doing all right. It wasn't as if I could just beg off from being a brood mare now that the deal was done.

But then, not even a moment after I'd stifled my laughter, I realized I was being rude. I was
thinking
in a rude, cynical sort of way. This man had given my family enough money to keep them well-fed for life, and I should have been grateful to him, and grateful for the token of concern he'd expressed.

I quickly sobered my expression. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Seemingly satisfied, he returned his gaze forward. "Good. I realize you're probably hungry and might have wanted to enjoy a meal with your family at the auction hall, though I felt it was best to not linger too long, making the separation even more difficult. We'll stop at one of my outposts for a celebration feast."

He wasn't unattractive at all; in fact, he was fairly handsome and even very well-built for his age. But it was his age that was the thing. He was at least three decades older than me. At least. And probably closer to four. He had to have been in his mid-to-late fifties. Perhaps even early sixties. And with the way he said things like "felt it was best," and the way he'd looked at me while asking if I was all right, he was starting to feel like a stern-but-possibly-gentle-underneath-it-all father. Or grandfather. Not at all like the kind of man I'd likely enjoy being made love to by. Even if it
was
just for the purposes of producing a child.

He suddenly turned to me again and offered his hand. "I'm sorry. I know your name, but you don't know mine. My official title is Lord Ashcrest, Thomas Ashcrest, though friends and family call me Tom. And you can call me Tom."

So I was a friend now. Or a family member. Nothing about this was striking me as romantic in any way. And maybe the tiniest little part of me had hoped that there
would
be at least a teeny romantic spark between me and the man who'd be attempting to impregnate me. Or at least a teeny spark of mutual sexual attraction.

However, I realized, this man was being civil and kind to me. And I should be grateful. I'd heard stories over the years that some women from my town had been sold to men who were terribly cruel.

I shook Tom's hand. "It's nice to meet you, Tom."

That immediately struck me as a funny thing to say to a man who'd just purchased me, and a little laughter threatened to rise in my throat once again. Though this time, it didn't bubble up to the point that I had to stifle it. I was suddenly feeling weak, hungry. The prospect of a "feast" at one of Tom's "outposts," wherever and whatever that was, was striking me as more and more welcome.