The man's hands were rough and unyielding as they manoeuvred Cailan's small frame. His touch was clinical, devoid of the lascivious intent Cailan had come to expect from potential buyers. Cold blue eyes scanned Cailan's body with detached scrutiny.

Cailan stood rigid, muscles taut beneath his skin, as calloused fingers pried open his mouth to inspect his teeth. The bitter taste of the man's skin lingered on Cailan's tongue. He fixed his gaze on a distant point, face carefully blank. Past experiences had taught him the consequences of showing even a flicker of emotion during these inspections—two days in the isolation room, where silence pressed in like a physical weight and time stretched endlessly.

A cool draft wafted through the room, though it wasn’t the cold that raised goosebumps on Cailan's exposed skin. He could sense the presence of the other boys beside him, their nervous energy palpable in the air. Master Adam's gaze bore into them from where he stood, arms crossed, his shadow long in the dim lighting.

The man's gravelly voice broke the tense silence: "I'll take him."

Master Adam's lips curled upward, eyes glinting with satisfaction. "I'll get the paperwork."

#

The carriage ride passed in uncomfortable silence, the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone the only sound. Cailan snuck glances at his new master, but the man's gaze remained fixed out the window, his profile stern and unreadable.

They arrived at a sprawling manor, its fresh paint gleaming in the afternoon sun. As they exited the carriage, a maid emerged from the house, her apron crisp and her expression neutral.

"Welcome home, Mr. Roy," she said, her voice steady and practised. "Shall I prepare anything for you or your... guest?"

"No," Mr. Roy replied curtly. He gestured for Cailan to follow him inside.

Cailan's ears perked up at learning his new master's surname, though he kept his expression carefully blank. He filed away this small piece of information, grateful for any insight into his new situation.

Inside, Cailan was led to a sparse room and left alone. Hours ticked by, marked only by the shifting shadows on the wall and the growing knot of anxiety in Cailan's stomach. His training hadn't prepared him for this crushing solitude, this gnawing uncertainty. As daylight faded, he began to wonder if he'd been forgotten entirely, just another possession stored away and left to gather dust.

The tantalising aroma of roasted meat and fresh bread wafted up from below, making Cailan's stomach clench with hunger. He listened to the muffled clink of cutlery against fine china, the low murmur of conversation barely audible through the floorboards. Later, he heard the scrape of chairs and footsteps dispersing throughout the house. Still, he waited, perched on the edge of the bed, his fingers absently tracing the rough wool of the blanket beneath him.

Darkness had long since fallen, the room illuminated only by slivers of moonlight seeping through the curtains, when the door finally creaked open. Mr. Roy's imposing silhouette filled the doorway.

"Follow me," he commanded, turning on his heel without waiting for a response.

Cailan scrambled to his feet, his throat tight. "Yes, master," he murmured, the words feeling like pebbles in his mouth, heavy and uncomfortable.

Mr. Roy's head snapped around, blue eyes locking onto Cailan's for the first time. The intensity of his gaze made Cailan's breath catch. "I am not your master," Mr. Roy stated flatly.

Without further explanation, he strode down the hallway, his long legs eating up the distance. Cailan hurried to keep pace, his bare feet padding silently on the polished wooden floor. Questions bubbled up in his mind, but the rigid set of Mr. Roy's shoulders warned against voicing them.

They entered a study that smelled of aged paper and wood polish. Towering bookcases lined the walls, their shelves sagging under the weight of countless books. A massive timber desk stood sentinel before tall windows that reflected the room like dark mirrors. 

But it was the boy standing off to the side who truly captured Cailan's attention. He appeared to be in his mid-teens, with a face that echoed Mr. Roy's features in softer, younger lines. His eyes were the same startling blue, but they held a warmth that Mr. Roy's lacked. His brown hair was neatly combed and caught the light with a healthy sheen.

Where Mr. Roy's face seemed permanently etched with a scowl, this boy's expression was carefully composed, though Cailan detected a hint of surprise in the slight widening of his eyes. The boy stood tall, shoulders back, as he appraised Cailan with a sweep of his gaze.

The boy turned to Mr. Roy, one eyebrow arched questioningly. "What is this, father?"

Mr. Roy's hand pressed against Cailan's back, propelling him forward with surprising force. Cailan stumbled, catching himself just short of colliding with the boy.

"This is what you will be using if you have any more urges you need to satisfy, Liam," Mr. Roy stated, his voice devoid of emotion.

The careful blankness of Liam's expression dissolved in an instant. Horror flickered in his eyes, his lips curling in distaste before he caught himself. With visible effort, he smoothed his features, though tension still radiated from his rigid posture. "Yes, father," he ground out.

Another rough shove from Mr. Roy sent Cailan stumbling closer to Liam. "Take him, then.”

Liam guided Cailan from the study with a firm hand on his arm. As soon as they were out of his father's sight, Liam's composed demeanour faltered. His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as he led Cailan down the hallway in tense silence.

They entered Liam's bedroom, and Cailan was immediately struck by its grandeur. Unlike the bare room he'd been left in earlier—with its small bed, lone dresser, and cold wooden floors—Liam's chamber spoke of comfort and privilege. A large bed with an ornately carved frame dominated the space. Plush carpets muffled their footsteps, and heavy curtains framed floor-length windows.

"What the hell does he think he—" Liam's voice cracked, his eyes wild with distress as he turned to face Cailan. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing its neat appearance. "I don't know which theory is worse," he continued. “That this is some kind of punishment designed to mock me, or that he genuinely thinks fooling around with boys my own age is no different from molesting a—a child."

Liam's voice caught on the word 'child', the disgust in his tone making Cailan flinch inwardly. His chest tightened, a familiar cocktail of shame and fear coursing through him. He knew he was the source of his new master's distress, and his training took over. He sank to his knees, the carpet cushioning his fall. His head bowed low, cascades of golden hair falling forward like a protective curtain, shielding his face from Liam's troubled gaze.

Liam's sharp intake of breath was like the hiss of a doused flame. When he spoke, his words were careful, measured. "How old are you?"

Cailan's throat constricted. "I—I'm thirteen, sir," he replied, his words quivering with uncertainty. In that moment, despite his training, Cailan felt every bit the child Liam saw him as, small and vulnerable in a world he didn't fully understand.

"That's too young," Liam said, his voice low and tight. He paced the room, agitation clear in every movement. "I'm fifteen, almost a man, and my own father has given me a child, to—" His words cut off abruptly as he clenched his fists at his sides. After a deep breath, he continued, "Well, don't you worry. That won't be happening."

Cailan's shoulders hunched inward, his fingers digging into the fabric of his robe. "You don't want me, sir?"

Liam's response was immediate and firm: "I'm not attracted to children."

Gathering his courage, Cailan lifted his head, golden hair falling away from his face. He watched as Liam paced back and forth, fingers raking through his hair repeatedly. The neat combing from earlier was completely undone, leaving it a dishevelled mess that somehow made him look even younger.

Cailan's hands trembled as he clasped them in his lap. "Are you going to send me back, sir?"

Liam paused in his pacing, turning to look at Cailan. His blue eyes, so like his father's yet so different, studied Cailan intently. A moment passed, then another. Finally, Liam's lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it—only bitterness and resignation. He shook his head. "No. You don't look like you were cheap. He can waste his money all he likes."

Cailan flinched at the words, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. Yet his shoulders relaxed slightly, tension seeping out of them. Being called a waste stung, but the alternative—being sent back—was far worse. He knew the fate awaiting returned slaves, especially Companions. Nobody would believe that his virginity hadn’t been taken. 

"Thank you, sir."

Liam's expression softened slightly. "You don't have to kneel," he said, his tone gentler now. He extended a hand, not quite touching Cailan but inviting him to stand. "Come, I'll show you the library."

The library doors swung open, revealing rows upon rows of bookshelves that stretched towards the high ceiling. A subtle, dusty aroma hung in the air, emanating from the countless old books lining the shelves, mingling with the crisp scent of polished wood. Cailan's eyes widened as he took in the sheer number of volumes, more than he could hope to read in years. It dwarfed the modest collection at the House, which he'd barely begun to explore in the few short, terrifying weeks since leaving the nursery.

As Liam guided him through the library, Cailan was acutely aware of the space between them. Liam's hands remained firmly at his sides, never once reaching out to touch Cailan—not even a brief tap to direct his attention. The memory of Liam's grip on his arm earlier lingered on Cailan's skin. He wondered if he'd ever feel that touch again.

By the time they returned to Cailan's sparse quarters, his arms were laden with a precarious stack of books. Liam offered a quick goodnight and departed, leaving Cailan alone in the quiet room. Cailan settled on the bed, a book open in his lap, but the letters blurred into indistinct shapes, his mind too restless to focus.

His skin prickled with the need for contact, for the reassuring presence of another person. In all his life, he'd never been alone for this long outside of punishment. His fingers twitched, longing to reach out, to apologise, to make amends—but for what? Liam had made it clear he'd done nothing wrong. Yet the feeling of wrongness persisted, gnawing at him like a physical ache.