Chapter 1
Sloane's POV
Three years after returning to the Duke's estate, I finally admit the truth: the phoenix I poured my heart into raising doesn't love me. He only spreads his brilliant tail feathers for the replacement.
I was six when traffickers took me, stuck in the slums for twenty years. A year after losing me, the Duke and Duchess adopted an infant from the church.
That girl became the new daughter, enjoying everything that should have been mine.
When they found me at twenty-six, my parents looked at me with guilt, yes, but mostly like I was a stranger. They loved the daughter they raised more.
I don't blame them.
Twenty years in the slums taught me: don't count on anyone's love. Only power and gold won't betray you.
So when he refused me for the third time, I went to the black market auction and bought a battered wolf slave.
The phoenix finally panicked, feathers flaring, voice shaking:
"Master, you promised you'd only keep one magical beast..."
The "merchandise" gets dragged across the stage one after another: elf maidens, half-beast cubs, several magical creatures on their last legs. I came for information, not shopping. Rumors say someone's been fencing magical items stolen from the Duke's estate. I need to know who.
Then they drag the wolf onto the platform.
Silver shackles bind his wrists and ankles, chains scraping harshly against the stone floor. He's tall but moves slowly, like he might collapse any second. His torn shirt barely clings to him, exposing massive purple bruises.
The auctioneer slaps the wolf's shoulder: "Ladies and gentlemen! Straight from the fighting pits! Stamina you wouldn't believe, heals like magic! Perfect for hunting, hard labor, or..."
He pauses with a suggestive leer. "Personal use."
The nobles around me laugh.
"That many injuries? How long can he last?"
"Maybe I'll feed him to my hounds."
"Fifty gold. He'd make a decent practice dummy."
The wolf keeps his head down, black hair hiding most of his face. But I catch his eyes. Beast pupils like ice-forged blades, dead yet holding something untamed underneath.
The most dangerous people are those with nothing left to lose. And the most loyal guards? They often come from people like that.
"Starting bid, one hundred gold!"
"One-twenty!"
"One-fifty!"
The price stalls at two hundred. Nobody wants to pay more for a "dying piece of trash." The auctioneer reaches for his gavel.
I raise my paddle.
"Five hundred gold."
Silence drops across the room. The auctioneer blinks, then grins wider: "Excellent choice! Five hundred once..."
No other bids.
"Five hundred three times! Sold!"
A worker leads me to a private booth backstage, then exits and shuts the door.
Just me and the wolf now.
Moonstone lamps float overhead, casting cold white light. He stands in the center, body tense, like he's waiting for judgment.
I circle him. Now I can see the crisscrossing whip scars on his back, some still bleeding. The arena brand seared into his ribs, charred flesh peeling. Black magic burns crawl up his forearms to his wrists. His wolf tail hangs limp, fur matted.
"Look up."
He lifts his head. I see his face.
Pale skin, sharp nose, narrow beast eyes. Bruises on his brow and jaw, but they can't hide the brutal beauty of that face. My breath catches.
The Duke's estate has no shortage of beautiful people. Evangeline surrounds herself with pretty servants, and Tristan's human form looks flawless. But this face hits different. The scars make him look shattered, the cold in his eyes makes him look dangerous, but somehow that contradiction makes him more lethal.
"Turn around."
He turns. Hard muscle definition, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, fluid spine. Every line radiates feral power.
I swallow.
I tell myself I just need a guard. Someone loyal enough, cheap enough, someone the Duke's people can't buy off. But right now something more primal screams in my chest, and my doctor recently told me I need to "release" this hormonal imbalance.
Tristan won't touch me, and this wolf...
I step forward and unfasten the silver collar around his neck.
He looks up sharply, wariness flashing through his beast eyes.
"What's your name?"
"...No name." His voice comes out hoarse. "Just a number in the arena."
"I'm Sloane. From now on, you're Cain. You're my guard."
Cain narrows his eyes: "Who do you need me to kill?"
I freeze.
The slums taught me plenty: theft, lies, survival by my wits. But I never crossed into murder. This wolf asks it like "what's for dinner?"
"Haven't decided yet. But before that..."
I rest my hand on his shoulder. His muscles lock instantly.
"Have you done it before?"
His pupils contract violently: "Done what?"
"What men and women do together."
Cain backs up until his shoulders hit the wall. His tail lashes anxiously: "I... Killing's all I know."
"Perfect." I rise on my toes and kiss him. "It's my first time too."
He goes rigid, a living statue.
My hand slides from his shoulder to his neck, fingers brushing the raw marks the collar left. His skin burns hot, heart pounding like it wants to break through his ribs.
A few seconds later, Cain raises a trembling hand, touches my waist with terrified gentleness.
"Are you sure?" he asks between kisses, voice shaking. "I'm just a filthy wolf... arena trash..."
I don't answer. I unbuckle the shackles at his waist.
The silver chains crash to the floor.
Cain's eyes fly wide, something long-suppressed exploding in their depths. He flips me onto the velvet couch, movements rough yet restrained, like a beast finally allowed to pounce but desperately reminding himself not to actually bite down.
"Master..." He buries his face against my neck. "I'll hurt you... I don't know what I'm doing..."
"It's fine." I wrap my arms around his scarred back. "We'll figure it out together."
Moonstone light spills through the booth. Beyond the curtains, the auction roars on, but here two people experience gentleness for the first time, clumsy and earnest, finding comfort in each other.
