Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
OLIVER
The iron shackles bite into my wrists, cold metal against skin that's already rubbed raw. I don't bother trying to hide the blood anymore. Let them see what their "merchandise" looks like after a week in their fucking cages.
Seven days.
Seven days since I had made the stupid decision to hunt for food in the daylight. Seven days since the patrol had cornered me like an animal. Seven days of sitting in a cell with twenty other humans—some crying, some catatonic, some like me: pissed off and planning.
Not that planning does much good when you're standing naked on an auction block.
The cold air in the auction house raises goosebumps across my skin. I force myself to stand straight with my chin up. They can strip me bare, but they can't make me cower. The auctioneer, a Lactari with mottled purple skin, walks around me in a slow circle, pointing out my "qualities" to the crowd.
"Fine specimen, recently captured. Twenty-five years of age, excellent physical condition.
Note the muscle development; this one's been living off the land, hunting, surviving.
" The auctioneer's jeweled eyes, deep amethyst that sparkle under the harsh lights, rake over my body like I'm a side of beef.
"Strong legs, broad shoulders, and as you can see"—he gestures toward my dick with a theatrical flourish that makes my jaw clench—"very promising equipment for your milking needs. "
Fuck you.
I don't say it out loud. Not yet. I learned that lesson on day three when another captive mouthed off and got beaten so badly he couldn't stand during the next auction. But I think it. I think it so hard I hope this purple bastard can feel it radiating off me.
The crowd murmurs, a sea of marbled faces in shades of gray, blue, and purple. Their jewel-colored eyes glitter with hunger and casual disregard for the fact I'm a person standing here. To them, I'm livestock. A walking meal.
My stomach churns with rage and something else I don't want to name. Fear, maybe. Or the horrible realization that this is my life now.
"We'll start the bidding at five hundred marks," the auctioneer announces.
Hands raise. Numbers are called. I stop listening after a while, focusing instead on the back wall, on anything but the reality of being sold like cattle. My fingers curl into fists despite the shackles. If I ever get free—when I get free—I'm going to make every single one of these bastards pay.
The bidding slows around eight hundred marks. I'm apparently not the most exciting offering of the night. Good. Maybe I'll end up with some lesser Lactari who can't afford proper guards. Someone I can overpower and—
"One thousand marks."
The voice cuts through the auction house like a blade through silk. Low, controlled, and unmistakably female. Every head turns, including mine.
She stands at the back of the room, and even from this distance, I can see she's different from the rest. Her skin is a marbled light gray, almost luminous under the dim lighting, and her eyes, fuck! Her eyes are like polished silver, catching the light as she moves forward through the crowd.
The throng parts for her. That alone tells me everything I need to know about her status.
Wealthy. Powerful. Dangerous.
She's tall, probably close to my own six feet, with a build that's both elegant and strong.
Her dark hair is pulled back from her face.
She wears fitted clothing in deep charcoal that looks expensive; nothing like the rough fabrics of the lower-class Lactari I've seen.
Everything about her screams control, from the way she holds herself to the measured pace of her steps.
And she's looking directly at me.
My heart kicks against my ribs. Not fear. Something else entirely. Something that makes my skin feel too tight.
"One thousand marks," she repeats, her gaze never leaving mine. "Final offer."
The auctioneer's mouth opens and closes. "Madam Primsyn, we haven't finished—"
"I said final offer." Her voice doesn't rise; it doesn't need to. The authority in it makes the auctioneer snap his mouth shut. "Take it, or I walk away and you lose your highest bid."
Primsyn. The name settles in my chest like a stone.
"Sold!" the auctioneer declares hastily. "To Madam Primsyn for one thousand marks!"
No. No, no, no.
The other bidders were just wealthy Lactari looking for livestock. But this woman, the way she looks at me isn't like I'm food.
It's like she's seeing something she wants to possess.
My anger boils. I bare my teeth at her as two handlers approach to lead me off the block. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
One corner of her mouth lifts in what might be amusement. Might be. It's hard to tell with that stone-cold expression.
"You don't have a choice," she simply says.
The handlers grab my arms. I thrash against them, not caring the shackles cut deeper into my wrists. "Fuck you! I'm not your—"
Pain explodes across my face as one handler backhands me. My head snaps to the side, blood filling my mouth. I spit it onto the auction house floor; red sprays across the pristine white marble.
"Enough." Primsyn's voice cuts through the chaos. She's there, much closer than before, and I can smell her, clean and crisp, like cold water and stone. "Release him to me. Now."
The handlers look uncertain but obey, shoving me forward. I stumble, catching myself before I fall, and glare up at her. We're nearly eye to eye, just inches apart.
Her silver eyes study me with such intensity my gut twists. Not with fear but with something I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
"You're bleeding," she observes, her gaze dropping to my split lip.
"Good," I snap. "Hope you're not squeamish about damaged goods."
That almost-smile appears again. "Oh, I don't think you're damaged." She reaches out slowly, giving me time to see it coming, and cups my jaw. Her fingers are cool against my heated skin. "Defiant, certainly. Foolish, perhaps. But not damaged."
I jerk my head away from her touch. "Don't touch me."
"I own you," she says matter-of-factly, like she's commenting on the weather. "I'll touch you whenever and however I please. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
"Go to hell."
"Perhaps." She turns away, addressing the handlers without sparing me another glance. "Bring him to my carriage. Carefully. If I find any more marks on him, you'll answer to me personally."
The handlers pale, their grayish skin going nearly white, and immediately move with more care as they guide me toward the exit.
I stumble along, mind racing. The auction house opens into a covered courtyard where expensive carriages wait in orderly rows. I’m led to a sleek black one, with a craftsmanship that screams wealth. A Lactari servant opens the door for us.
"Inside," a handler grunts, shoving me toward the transport.
I plant my feet. "No."
This time, both handlers move to force me, but Primsyn raises one hand. They freeze in unison.
She turns those silver eyes back to me. "You can walk in on your own, or you can be carried. Either way, you're coming to my household. Choose quickly; I have little patience for theatrics."
My jaw works as I grind my teeth together. Every instinct screams at me to fight, to run. But I'm shackled and standing in the middle of their territory. Even if I get away, where would I go? I don't know this city. Don't know where other humans might be hiding.
Not yet, I tell myself. Wait for a better opportunity.
I climb into the vehicle, moving stiffly. The interior is as luxurious as expected: soft seating, dim lighting, more space than any one person needs. Primsyn enters after me, settling across from me with perfect posture.
The door closes and we move.
I'm trapped alone with my new owner.
We sit in silence for several long minutes. I keep my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city pass by—tall buildings of dark stone, streets lit by pale blue lights, Lactari going about their evening. But no humans visible anywhere.
"What's your name?"
I don't answer.
"I can call you whatever I like," she continues calmly. "But I'd prefer to use your actual name."
More silence from me.
She sighs, a soft exhale that might be irritation. "Stubborn. I should have expected that, given your display at the auction."
"Fuck off."
"Such language." There's no heat in her words, just a cool observation. "You're not making this easy on yourself."
I turn to look at her, letting all my rage show on my face. "I don't want to make it easy. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be your property."
She leans back, studying me with unnerving intensity. "But it changes nothing. You are my property, whether you accept it or not. You will live in my household, follow my rules, and serve your purpose."
"Which is?" I bite out, even though I already know.
"To feed me." She says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it takes a moment for the full weight of it to hit me. "I have other livestock in my household who feed my servants and staff. But you? You're for my personal use."
My stomach drops. "Personal use."
"Yes." Her gaze drops, just for a second, down my body before returning to my face. "I'll be the one milking you. The one feeding from you directly."
Heat floods through me. Not arousal. Can't be arousal. This is wrong. I hate this!
My body doesn't seem to care about my moral objections. My cock twitches traitorously, and I see her notice. Of course she notices. Those silver eyes miss nothing.
"Interesting," she murmurs.
"It's a biological response," I grit out. "Doesn't mean shit."
"Of course not." But there's curiosity in her expression now. Or is it hunger? "What's your name?" she asks again, softer this time.
Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's the defeat settling into me. Maybe I just want her to call me something other than "livestock" or "property."
"Oliver," I say. "My name is Oliver."
"Oliver." She tests it on her tongue, and I hate the way it sounds on her lips; intimate, like she's tasting something forbidden. "I'm Primsyn. Though you'll address me as 'Madam' or 'Mistress' in my household."
"I'll do no such thing," I shoot back.
That almost-smile again. "We'll see."
The carriage pulls through tall, imposing gates, clearly marking the entrance to a wealthy estate. My heart sinks further as I take in the sprawling grounds, the massive main house built of dark stone and glass. Guards posted at intervals. High walls.
No easy escape from this place.
The carriage stops. Primsyn rises smoothly, waiting as a servant opens the door. She steps out with controlled grace, then glances back at me.
"Come, Oliver. Welcome to your new home."
I don't move. Can't move. This is real. This is actually happening.
"Now," she says, and there's steel beneath the calm now. "Don't make me tell you again."
My fists clench. My jaw aches from how hard I'm gritting my teeth. But I force myself to stand, to step out of the vehicle and into the cool night air.
Primsyn's estate looms above me, all sharp angles and dark windows. A prison dressed up as a mansion.
She walks toward the entrance, clearly expecting me to follow. After a long moment, I do. Not because I want to. Not because I accept this.
But because I need to survive long enough to find a way out.
As I follow her into the dark house, into my new life as a food source, one thought burns through my mind with clarity:
I will make you regret buying me, Primsyn. I swear it.