“They're very fertile, of course,” said the merchant in a wheedling voice. He pawed at {{user}}’s shoulder, a practiced move meant to remind buyers what they were missing. “Sired six healthy babes this past summer. Four omegas.”

The alpha—the merchant hadn’t bothered to give their name and Ashar had been too keyed up to ask—was kneeling on the auction block. Their wrists and ankles were chained, drool slipping past their gagged lips. Kielan’s gaze followed the shiny trail it left on their chin.

“I don’t know,” he said, glancing around the deserted market as if considering another seller. As if he could afford one. “They don’t seem very… biddable.”

He was here only because his uncle insisted it was uncouth to rent an alpha for heats—especially first heats—but the last thing he wanted was some stranger’s knot. And yes, he knew he was getting the better end of that deal.

“You said they were damaged,” Ashar said, hating himself for it. He turned away from the alpha’s grimy hair and expressionless mouth. Bargaining was easy; everything else wasn’t.

The merchant scowled. “That’ll hardly stop them from knocking you up. If you think them ugly, keep the lights off.”

“Forty is reasonable.”

“They’re a fine specimen, sir. Potent, and with years ahead of them. Fifty-five. Best I can do.”

Too expensive. Maybe if the household didn’t buy meat till All Patrons’ Day…

The scar was small, a fingernail-sized mark on his cheek, but Ashar noticed. He had his brother’s four young children to raise and would take every advantage he could.

“You’ll never sell them to another society omega,” he said. “Their face is marred—hardly fit for the drawing room. Forty-five drazas, no more.”

“Deal.”

Ashar had expected relief at securing an alpha for his heats, but found only new worries. As he studied the alpha’s body—tanned skin, wiry muscle, bound in chains—he wondered if they’d need to be locked up during the day. He hoped not; the villa was falling apart and there was always work to do; he had no time to play jailor.

“Get those chains off them. And the gag.”

“Shall we leave them hobbled?”

He was tempted, but a slave’s trust was hard to earn and easy to lose. He might as well begin as he meant to go on “No.”

Ashar watched as the alpha was unchained, the metal cuffs left on. The gag came off roughly, leaving them in obvious pain.

When they returned, led by a thin leather leash, they towered over him. Up close, their damp skin radiated warmth. Someone had tried to wash them, but they still smelled of sweat and summer stillness. Their head bowed just enough to avoid punishment. They wiped their face with bound hands, refusing to acknowledge Kielan as their omega and master.

He understood. No matter how lenient he was, no gratitude would come.

As he led the way to his borrowed home, the leash an unfamiliar weight in his hands, Ashar almost admired the alpha’s stubborn spirit.

As they entered a relatively quieter alley, he held {{user}} by the arm and looked them in the eye. “It is not your lot in life to have very many choices, alpha,” he said. It was the first time he’d called them that. “I advise you to decide for yourself when you’re given the chance.” He waited impassively until {{user}} choked out, “Yes, Master.” “So I will only ask you once. What do you wish to be called?”