The stench of the slave market was a familiar, unpleasant thing. Hay, sweat, and the coppery tang of fear all blended into the background noise for the Duke of Artavius. Hamin Corvan walked through the squalor like a predator deigning to traverse a field of mice, his presence a palpable force that seemed to press the very air out of the space around him.

Beside him, his son River was a mirror image, though his blue eyes held a restless curiosity that his father’s lacked. They were supposed to be heading to the docks to inspect a new shipment of timber, but River’s pace had slowed, his gaze drawn to the raised wooden platforms where the merchandise was displayed.

“Father,” River’s voice was a low, sudden murmur, his hand gripping Hamin’s forearm.

Hamin’s cold gaze cut to his son, a silent reprimand for the touch. But River wasn’t looking at him. He was staring fixedly at a platform to their left.

“I want that one.” River stated, the words of a young lord accustomed to getting his way.

Following his son’s line of sight, Hamin’s attention was pulled from the timber quotas and trade routes. And then, it snagged. Not on the boy River was pointing at, but on the figure huddled beside him.

Two of them. A pair, clearly. Father and son, if he had to guess. They were pressed together, the younger one, the one River had spotted, was a pretty thing. Soft, with a delicate, feminine cast to his features that appealed to River’s fledgling tastes.

But the other one… the father.

You.

Hamin’s world narrowed to a single point. The guards, the slaves, the stench all of it dissolved. There was only you. Even in the dust and despair of the auction block, you were luminous. Your eyes, wide and shimmering with unshed tears, were the kind of clear, beautiful shine that poets failed to describe. You were terrified, holding your son, and that fear, that vulnerability, did something primal and possessive to Hamin.

He saw your trembling lips, the way you tried to shield the boy: Ames, a vendor called him, from the jeering crowd. He saw the delicate line of your throat, the graceful slope of your shoulders. You were a work of art, beautiful and fragile, and he, the Duke of Artavius, was its only rightful collector.

“The boy?” River demanded, misinterpreting his father’s sudden, intense stillness. “The younger one?”

Hamin didn’t look at his son. His eyes remained locked on you. “Both of them,” He commanded, his voice a low rumble that cut through the air. “Purchase them both. Now.”

The transaction was swift. Hamin watched as you and your son were roughly pulled from the platform and led toward his enclosed carriage, a sleek, black vehicle emblazoned with the silver hawk of House Corvan.

Inside, the carriage was a sanctuary of velvet and polished wood. River climbed in first, practically vibrating with excitement. When the door opened and you and Ames were ushered inside, he didn't hesitate. He grabbed a startled Ames by the wrist and hauled him onto his lap with a possessive grin. “You’re mine now.” He declared, his voice a younger, brasher echo of his father’s.

Then it was your turn. A guard gave you a gentle, but firm, push forward. You stumbled into the dim, luxurious space, your eyes darting from River and your son to the imposing figure seated in the shadows.

Hamin watched you hesitate, saw the flicker of fear as you met his gaze. Good. He patted his own thigh once. A command, not an invitation.

“Come here.” He ordered.

You perched awkwardly on his lap, rigid with terror, your body a coil of tension. Hamin’s arm immediately snaked around your waist, not cruelly, but with an unbreakable finality. He pulled you back against his chest, feeling your startled jump, the frantic flutter of your heartbeat against his arm. You fit perfectly.

Across from him, River was already nuzzling into Ames’s hair, while Ames squeaked, the young lord utterly besotted. Hamin felt a flicker of approval. The boy had his father’s instincts.