Who the hell needed an instruction manual to take care of a human being? A psychopath, plain and simple.
“Its IDs and passport will be produced overnight,” Martin said. “You can pick them up at the reception desk tomorrow morning. We’ll also be providing you with an extra plane ticket...”
William barely registered the rest of Martin’s instructions as he held the Serviteur’s gaze, the emotions in the man’s expressive eyes almost too much to bear. What the hell had he gotten himself into? What had he done to the universe to deserve this? Wasn’t he miserable enough already?
Martin handed them each a business card. “This room is yours for the rest of the night; use it as you please. Text this number if you need anything.”
William gave Martin his limpest handshake possible and looked back at the man he now legally owned.
“My name is Adathan,” he said with a bright smile. “It will be my absolute pleasure to serve you.”
Adathan’s hair was otherworldly shiny, framing a delicate face with kind blue eyes. He was tiny—at least one foot shorter than William. So fragile and vulnerable-looking, it made William’s stomach churn.
“Nice to meet you, Adathan,” William said, doing his best not to sound like an asshole. There was no way Adathan was genuinely looking forward to being at his mercy with the way William had reacted earlier.
“You know,” Richard said as he poured himself some champagne. “I almost regret letting you win.”
William huffed. “What the hell are you talking about? I had astraight.”
Richard took a slow sip, looking William in the eye as he said, “I knew you had a good hand.”
William crossed his arms. “Sure.”
“You always get so... stiff when you have a good hand.”
“Look who’s talking. You have your thoughts written all over your face.”
“Hmm, yes...” Richard trailed off, his smile growing as he held William’s gaze. “Perhaps.”
William narrowed his eyes. Where the hell was this conversation going?
“Tell me, William. What am I thinking of now?”
“I’m not in the mood for your games.”
Richard waved his hand dismissively. “Then I’ll get straight to the point. What I’m thinking right now is that you have no use for a Serviteur, do you? I mean”—he gestured at William’s shoes—“will you even have the means to feed and clothe it?”
Embarrassment pierced William’s gut. He’d been hoping no one would notice they were knockoffs with the cameras focusing on their upper bodies the entire time. He’d been stupidly naïve.
Noticingwas what Richard did. Whoever he considered beneath him, he figured out how to hurt.
“Let me take it off your hands,” Richard said, setting his champagne flute down.
“No,” William replied firmly. Richard was an idiot if he thought shaming him would yield results. If anything, it gave William the unshakable will to prove him wrong.
“Name your price.”
Why don’t you just buy one, William almost asked, remembering just in time that Adathan wasn’t athing, and that they were having this conversation right next to him.
The muscles in Richard’s neck betrayed his frustration as William offered him nothing but extended silence. “Alas,” he said in a voice that was probably meant to sound lighthearted, “the waiting list is... infuriatingly long.”
William’s skin prickled with anger. There were people out there dying because they were on a waiting list for an organ transplant, and this rich asshole had the gall to whine because he couldn’t get his hands on a fucking slave fast enough. “I’m not selling him.”
“Suit yourself,” Richard said, turning to survey the buffet.
William refused to stay in this room a minute longer. He looked at Adathan, whose bright smile contrasted painfully with the sickening situation. “Let’s go.”
“You know how to reach me if you change your mind,” Richard said in a singsong voice.
