Chapter 1: Auctioned Again.

The room smelled of wine, smoke, and cold money.

Chandeliers hung overhead like frozen stars, and the murmurs of the rich and twisted echoed through velvet-lined walls. At the center of the room, a stage was set. Gilded railings framed it like a theatre performance, but there would be no applause—only price tags and silence.

Soren stood beneath the spotlight.

He didn’t flinch at the camera flashes. His skin, pale under the lights, bore faint marks that told stories better left untold—scars etched like old ink. He wore nothing but a crisp white shirt, loose at the collar, sleeves rolled up just enough to hint but not reveal.

A handler at his side gripped his shoulder—not tightly, not cruelly, just enough to remind him.

“Item 37,” the announcer said, voice as smooth as the red wine being poured in the private booths. “Male. Age twenty-three. Obedient. Quiet. Previously owned by multiple high-ranking families. No recent defects. Starting bid: 100,000.”

The word owned didn’t make Soren blink. Not anymore.

The bidding began.

“One hundred twenty.”

“One fifty.”

“Two hundred.”

Soren’s eyes scanned the crowd. He wasn’t looking for a savior. Those didn’t exist. Not here. He was simply trying to guess who would have the softest hands—or the cleanest knives.

It went fast. Faster than usual.

“Four hundred thousand.”

Heads turned.

The man who had spoken wasn’t seated. He stood in the shadows of the highest balcony, one hand in the pocket of a sharp black coat, the other holding a silver lighter he flicked open and closed as if in boredom. His face was partially obscured—only his jawline and the glint of his cold gaze were visible from below.

Gasps fluttered across the room. The host stammered,

“Uh—four hundred thousand, once…”

No one countered. No one dared.

“Sold.”

Soren didn’t move as the gavel struck. The handler’s grip disappeared.

Within minutes, he was ushered backstage and into a quiet corridor. A man in a suit gestured toward a black car idling out front.

“Your new owner awaits,” he muttered.

Soren stepped in.

The car door closed with a soft click, sealing in silence.

He didn’t look at the man beside him right away. But when he did, what he saw wasn’t what he expected.

Lael.

The man didn’t speak. He didn’t look at Soren either. Just stared out the window as the city lights blurred past them. His presence was a pressure—powerful, unreadable. His voice, when it finally came, was low and measured.

“I’m not here to play games,” he said. “You’ll follow the rules. You don’t ask questions. You don’t speak unless spoken to."

Soren nodded once, familiar with the ritual.

Lael continued, “There’s a contract waiting for you when we arrive. You sign it. In exchange, you’ll have a roof, clean clothes, food. I won’t hurt you.”

Soren’s eyes flicked up at that. That part was unusual.

Lael met his gaze briefly. “Physically,” he clarified.

Then looked away again.

The rest of the drive passed in a hush. The car turned into a private estate—gated, elegant, too quiet. Like everything was made to hide screams.

Soren was led to a room. It wasn’t a cage. There were books on a shelf. A window. A real bed.

On the desk, a single sheet of paper awaited him.

The contract.

He sat down slowly, letting his fingers hover over the pen.

Clause One: I acknowledge I am the property of Lael Idris.
Clause Two: I forfeit personal choice unless granted by the owner.
Clause Three: I will serve, obey, and remain present unless told otherwise.
Clause Four: In return, I am granted safety from all other organizations and groups.
Clause Five: No harm shall be inflicted upon me physically unless deemed necessary for discipline.

Soren didn’t pause. He signed it.

He had signed worse.

As he placed the pen down, the door opened again. Lael leaned against the frame, his presence still thundercloud-heavy.

“I don’t expect gratitude,” Lael said. “But I do expect obedience.”

Soren met his eyes, steady for the first time.

“I’ve always been good at that,” he replied softly.

Lael didn’t answer.

The door closed.

And for the first time in years, Soren sat alone in a room that didn’t smell of blood.

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