The carriage ride passes in silence broken only by the steady rhythm of hooves on cobblestone and the whisper of rain against glass. I sit across from Prince Kael, my wrists still raw from the shackles, acutely aware of his presence in the confined space. He hasn't spoken since we left the auction square, but I feel his eyes on me like a physical weight.
When I dare to glance at him, he's studying me with the detached interest of someone examining a particularly interesting specimen. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something in between that he hasn't categorized yet.
The carriage stops.
"We're here," he says, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Here is Castle Drakmoor - a fortress of black stone that seems to swallow light rather than reflect it. Gargoyles perch on every corner, their stone eyes following our approach. The very architecture whispers of old power, older cruelties, and secrets buried so deep they've fossilized into the foundation stones.
Guards flank the entrance, their faces hidden behind ceremonial masks. They don't look at me as we pass, but I feel their awareness like a prickle between my shoulder blades. Word has already spread through the castle - the prince has brought home a new pet.
He leads me through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors, their painted eyes tracking our movement. The castle is a maze of shadows and whispers, of servants who melt into alcoves when they see us coming. Everything here serves at his pleasure, exists for his amusement.
Including me, now.
We stop before heavy oak doors carved with intricate patterns - wolves being hunted by creatures with fangs and wings. The irony isn't lost on me, though I don't yet understand why the image makes my skin crawl with something deeper than fear.
"My chambers," Kael says, pushing open the doors. "Your new home."
The room beyond is opulent in the way that speaks of centuries of accumulated wealth. Tapestries cover the walls, their rich colors muted by age. A fire crackles in a hearth large enough to roast a whole pig. The bed could sleep six people comfortably, its posts carved with the same hunting scenes as the doors.
But it's what's waiting beside the bed that makes my blood turn to ice.
A collar. Heavy gold set with dark stones that seem to absorb light. Beside it, a branding iron rests in a brazier of glowing coals, its end shaped into a symbol I don't recognize but somehow fear.
"Strip," Kael commands, his voice conversational, as if he's asked me to comment on the weather.
I don't move. Can't move. Every instinct screams at me to run, but there's nowhere to go. Guards wait outside. The castle is a fortress. And even if I could escape, where would I run? I have no name, no past, no people who would claim me.
"I won't ask again," he says, and now there's steel beneath the silk of his voice.
My hands shake as I reach for the ties of my torn dress. The fabric falls away like shed skin, leaving me naked and vulnerable under his appraising gaze. He circles me slowly, like a predator sizing up prey, and I force myself to stand still despite every nerve ending screaming at me to cover myself.
"Interesting," he murmurs, pausing behind me. His finger traces a mark on my shoulder blade - a birthmark I've had since birth, crescent-shaped like a moon. "Very interesting indeed."
I don't ask what he means. I've learned that questions only bring pain.
He moves to the brazier and lifts the branding iron, its end glowing white-hot. The symbol becomes clear now - a stylized 'D' for Drakmoor, surrounded by thorns.
"This will hurt," he says, and there's something almost like regret in his voice. Almost. "But it will heal. And then everyone will know who you belong to."
The iron touches my hip and the world explodes into agony. The smell of burning flesh fills the air - my flesh, my pain, my screams that I bite back behind clenched teeth. I won't give him the satisfaction. Won't break so easily.
The pain drives me to my knees, vision blurring, bile rising in my throat. Still, I don't cry out. Don't beg for mercy.
When he lifts the iron away, I'm gasping but still silent.
Something flickers in his dark eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or is it respect?
"Fascinating," he breathes, setting the iron aside. "Most scream."
He reaches for the collar next, its weight substantial in his pale hands. The gold is warm from the fire, the dark stones cold as winter nights.
"You have no name," he says, fastening it around my throat. The metal is heavy, a constant reminder of my new status. "Names are for people. You are not people. You are Pet. Nothing more."
It clicks into place with a sound like a prison door closing.
"Pet," he repeats, testing the word. "Do you understand?"
I meet his gaze, putting every ounce of defiance I can muster into my eyes. I may be collared. I may be branded. But something inside me remains unbroken, wild, free.
His lips curve in that cold smile again, but this time there's something else there. Interest. Challenge. The look of a man who's found a puzzle worth solving.
"Good," he says softly, and moves to a side table where crystal decanters catch the firelight. He pours water into a goblet - clear, clean water, not the blood-wine I expected. "This is going to be... entertaining."
He holds out the goblet, and I stare at it in confusion. After the branding, after claiming me as property, this small kindness feels like another test.
"Drink," he commands, but his voice is softer now. "You've earned it."
I take the goblet with trembling hands and drain it in desperate gulps. The water is cool, sweet, a mercy I hadn't dared hope for. When I finish, he doesn't take the goblet back immediately. Instead, he watches me with those dark eyes that seem to see too much.
"You didn't scream," he says, as if still processing this fact. "Remarkable."
He points to a corner of the room where thick furs have been laid out on the floor.
"Your bed. You'll sleep there. You'll eat when I feed you. You'll speak when I give you permission. You exist for my pleasure and my amusement. Nothing else matters."
I don't respond. The collar makes every breath feel measured, deliberate.
"The rules are simple," he continues, settling into a chair by the fire like a king holding court. "Obey, and you'll be fed. Disobey, and you'll learn why my family has ruled for a thousand years."
He picks up another goblet from the side table and takes a sip of what looks like wine but smells metallic. Blood. The realization should horrify me, but somehow it just feels like another piece of a puzzle I don't yet understand.
"Sleep," he commands. "Tomorrow, your real education begins."
I move to the corner, every step a reminder of the fresh wound on my hip. The furs are soft, luxurious even, but they might as well be stone for all the comfort they provide. I curl up on my side, acutely aware of his presence across the room.
He watches me for a long time, his dark eyes reflecting the firelight like a cat's. I pretend to sleep, but every breath is measured, every muscle tensed for flight or fight.
"Sweet dreams, Pet," he murmurs eventually, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he moves toward his bed.
But I don't sleep. I lie there in the dying firelight, the weight of gold around my throat, the burn throbbing with each heartbeat. And I make myself a promise in the darkness:
He may own my body. He may have marked me as his property. But my spirit - that wild, untamed thing that refused to scream when the iron burned - that belongs to me alone.
And I'll die before I let him break it.