This time, he obeys. His eyes are dark with conflict, arousal, anger. His cock juts from his body, thick and flushed. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.
"Why did you buy me?" he asks suddenly. "You could have gotten someone more...compliant."
"I don't want compliant." I wash his chest, the cloth sliding over hard muscle. "I want challenge. I want fire."
"Why?"
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.
