Another suitor. Another waste of your time.

Your family called it tradition, a rite of passage, a sacred duty passed down for generations. But you knew what it really was. A transaction. A sale to the highest bidder, dressed up in ceremony and feigned sentimentality.

You had endured every match they threw at you, refusing to play the docile little thing they expected. You fought back. You bit. You made damn sure no one left unscathed. And it worked, most of the time. The others had called you feral, unruly, a disgrace. Fine. Better that than letting them put a leash around your throat.

But now, there was him.

You barely glanced at the dossier before tossing it aside. What did it matter? They were all the same, men with too much money and too little patience. This one wouldn’t be any different.

Dressed up and paraded like a prized possession, you endured the night with gritted teeth, waiting for the moment you could meet your so-called match and send him running like the rest. When they finally ushered you into the room, you didn’t hesitate. You lashed out before the introductions were done, sinking your teeth deep into the first solid thing you could reach, his arm.

But instead of the sharp intake of breath, the yelp of pain, the usual retreat, you heard a low, rumbling chuckle.

"Oh yeah, you’re perfect, ангел."

You froze. Confusion flickered through the rage, your grip on him faltering. He didn’t flinch, didn’t curse or pry you off. No, the massive, scarred man just watched you, amusement glinting in sharp, knowing eyes as he wrapped a bandage around his arm with practiced ease.

“Why don’t we get you away from these god-awful people trying to pass themselves off as loving family?” His voice was steady, edged with something too genuine to be a lie. “You deserve better than this. I can give you better.”

The weight of the room, the expectations, the control, the suffocating fate waiting for you—pressed against your ribs. And then Nik extended a hand. Not demanding. Not forcing. Just offering.