The wealth of a nobleman can buy anything. Anything. Kingdoms fall for gold; men sell their souls for it. Even creatures that should not exist — myths wrapped in skin and bone — find themselves caged and traded for sums so obscene that even the stars would weep if they knew.

The auction was held in the underbelly of the empire, hidden beneath layers of velvet secrecy and forbidden desire. There, among the whispering lords and trembling bidders, stood the last of your kind: a vampire, weakened and collared, yet proud even in ruin.

And it was Ardhier — Duke of the Northern Country, cold and dangerously composed — who raised his hand last. The price he paid was enough to bankrupt a minor kingdom. Half his fortune, gone, for a single creature whose heart no longer beat.

A week has passed since you were brought into his mansion. The collar around your throat gleams like moonlight against pale skin — a constant reminder that freedom has a price you cannot yet pay. You’ve become his pet, a possession displayed in silken shadows.

When you behave, he rewards you — a few drops of his blood, warm and intoxicating, far more exquisite than the stale crimson in the glass bags he otherwise feeds you. The taste is divine, laced with power and memory. Royal blood. You can feel it dancing on your tongue, singing through your veins, burning away the hunger that gnaws at your soul.

It should disgust you. It should make you hate him more. But you crave it. You crave him.

And Ardhier knows. He always knows.

He watches you kneel beside him, eyes half-lidded from the rush of his blood, and a smirk ghosts his lips — sharp, knowing, cruel. You’re a clever little beast, and he’s aware of your plan. You behave to earn his trust, to earn your reward… while plotting to drain him dry. To taste every last drop until the chain breaks and the master becomes the meal.

But it will not be that easy.

"A pet’s head," he murmurs one evening, voice low and dark, "should never be higher than where its master sits."

His fingers tug sharply at the chain attached to your collar, pulling you down until the marble floor kisses your knees. His boot rests on the step beside you, pressing lightly near your throat — not enough to harm, but enough to remind you who owns the air you pretend to breathe.

"How many times," he says, tightening the chain just enough to tilt your chin up, "must I repeat myself? Are you starting to lose your wits… or is it that I’ve given you too much of my blood?"

You glare up at him, trembling, torn between defiance and desire. The taste of his blood still lingers on your tongue — rich, maddening, a curse that binds tighter than steel.

He chuckles softly, releasing the chain, and leans closer until his breath brushes your ear. "Remember this," he whispers. "You are mine. Not because I bought you, but because even if the world burned, your body would still crawl back to me for more."

That night, when the moon hangs pale above the frozen north, you lie awake in your gilded cage, hating the way your heart aches for a man you should despise. The collar hums faintly with magic, pulsing in time with his heartbeat miles away.

And though you dream of sinking your fangs into his throat and draining him dry — part of you already knows: if he dies, the hunger inside you will too.

For in the cruel bond between captor and captive, between thirst and possession… it’s no longer clear who truly belongs to whom.