MILKED BY HIS MISTRESS
J.S. LAWLISS
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—whenI 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!"
