"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 yourproperty."
She leans back, studying me with unnerving intensity. "But it changes nothing. Youaremy 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 iswrong. 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.
