Chapter 2 #2
It's such a simple question, but the answer is complicated. Because I've been dead inside for so long. Because my husband never made me feel anything. Because I'm forty years old and I've never known desire until I saw this human on an auction block, bloody and unyielding and utterly captivating.
"Because you intrigue me," I finally say. It's not the whole truth, but it's true enough.
Oliver laughs, a choppy, bitter sound. "Interesting. Great. Glad I can be your entertainment."
"You're more than that." The words escape before I can stop them.
His eyes snap to mine. "What?"
I curse myself. Too much, too soon. I can't let him see how he affects me. Can't let him have that kind of power.
"You're valuable livestock," I amend, my voice cooling back to neutral. "I paid a thousand marks for you. I intend to get my money's worth."
His expression shutters. The brief moment of connection, of something almost honest between us, vanishes.
"Right," he says. "Livestock. That's what I am."
I finish washing him in silence, my movements efficient now rather than exploratory. When I'm done, I step back.
"Out of the pool. Healer Madris is waiting."
Oliver climbs out, water streaming off his body. A servant has left clothing for him near a bench. Simple trousers, no shirt. Standard for male livestock in wealthy households.
He dries himself roughly and pulls on the trousers. They sit low on his hips, and I find my gaze drawn to the line of muscle that disappears beneath the fabric.
Control yourself.
"Follow me," I say, heading for the door.
"Where?"
"To your quarters."
"You mean my cage."
I pause at the door, looking back at him. "Your quarters," I repeat firmly. "You'll have a room, a bed, privacy when you're not needed. You're not a prisoner, Oliver."
"Except I can't leave."
"No. You can't leave."
His jaw works. "Then I'm a prisoner."
I can't argue with that logic, so I don't try. I simply open the door and wait for him to follow.
He does after a long moment. Acquiescence always after a moment of resistance; his show of rebellion. I'm beginning to recognize the pattern.
We walk through the corridors of my home, past rooms he'll likely never see, past servants who bow as I pass and eye Oliver with curiosity. He keeps his gaze forward, his shoulders rigid.
His quarters are in the east wing, not far from my chambers. Close enough so I can easily reach him when I need to feed. The room is spacious by livestock standards with a proper bed, a washbasin, even a small window that looks out over the gardens.
"This is it," I say, pushing open the door.
Oliver steps inside, his eyes scanning the space. I can see him cataloging everything: the window, the door, potential weapons, escape routes. Always thinking, always planning.
"The door locks from the outside," I tell him. "For your safety as much as mine."
"My safety." He turns to face me, and there's that bitter laugh again. "You're so full of shit."
My patience, already worn thin, snaps.
I cross the space between us in three strides and grab his jaw, forcing him to meet my eyes. He tenses, muscles coiling, but he doesn't pull away.
"Listen very carefully, bull," I say, my voice low. "I have been patient with you tonight. I have allowed your disrespect, your cursing, your defiance. But my patience is not infinite, Oliver. I am your owner. Your Mistress. And you will learn to show respect, or there will be consequences."
His eyes flash. "What are you going to do? Beat me? Starve me? I've already lost everything. What more can you take?"
"Your pride," I say. "Your dignity. Your sense of self.
" My thumb brushes across his lower lip, still slightly swollen from where the handler struck him.
"I can break you in ways you can't even imagine.
Or..." My voice softens slightly. "You can make this easier on yourself.
Accept your place. Find whatever peace you can in your new life. "
"Never," he breathes.
I release his jaw and step back. "We'll see."
I move toward the door, needing distance before I do something foolish. Like kiss him. Like push him down on hte bed and take what I bought him for.
"Mistress."
I pause, surprised he used the title.
"Why didn't you?" His voice is rough, confused.
"Why didn't I what?"
"Back in the bathing chamber. You could have...you could have done whatever you wanted. Why didn't you?"
I look back at him over my shoulder. "Because when I finally take you, Oliver, when I finally milk you and feed from you, I want you to be aware and present. I want you to feel every second of it. And I want you to admit, even if only to yourself, that you want it too."
His throat works as he swallows hard.
"Sleep well," I say, and close the door behind me.
The lock clicks into place. Final. Absolute.
I lean against the wall outside his room, my hands trembling. What am I doing? This human is supposed to be food, nothing more. A means to an end.
But the way he looked at me in that bathing chamber, the way his body responded despite his protests, the way my own body aches now with unfulfilled need...
This is dangerous. This is more than I bargained for.