I looked around Jacobi's study with open curiosity. Two days had passed since our arrival at Velez Estate, and this was the first time he'd summoned me from the quarters where I'd been told to remain "until arrangements were made." The whole estate had a weight to it, old stone, old power, and the constant rhythm of waves against the cliffs below forming a backdrop to all other sounds.

  Being inside Jacobi's private space offered a glimpse into the man himself. The meticulously arranged desk. The walls of leather-bound books. The faint scent of brandy and beeswax that lingered in the air. Everything orderly, contained, controlled, just like him. But the half-empty glass on his desk, unusual for this early hour, suggested depths I hadn't expected.

  He sat behind the desk, pointedly ignoring me as he read through stacks of correspondence. The silence between us hung heavy, so different from our journey here. Since the encounter with Marcelo Levanth in Thornhill, Jacobi had retreated behind walls of cold formality. I understood his reaction, even if it stung more than I cared to admit. Marcelo had seen something between us, some connection, some hint of regard, and Jacobi feared that making me a target.

  I still remembered the warmth in his eyes as we'd shared wine at the inn. The unexpected respect as we'd fought side by side against the bandits. The surprising gentleness when I'd dressed his wound afterward. That man seemed worlds away from the cold figure before me now.

  "Excuse me, please, Jacobi," I took a step toward the desk, noticing a letter bearing Marcelo's seal lying half-hidden beneath other correspondence. He held a finger up for me to wait, not looking up from his papers.

  I stepped back to my assigned position, my chest tight with disappointment. He'd been corresponding with Marcelo since our arrival. The coldness wasn't just reaction to our encounter at the inn, Marcelo was actively influencing him from afar. Perhaps even dictating how I should be treated.

  My eyes drifted to the glass water jug on his desk. After several moments passed without acknowledgment, I walked over and poured myself a glass of water.

  I downed it in one go, the cold liquid soothing my suddenly dry throat. I replaced the glass on the desk and found Jacobi watching me, his face hardened into severe lines. He steepled his fingers on top of the paperwork, taking a deep breath.

  "Did I say you could move?"

  I opened my mouth to respond, but he held up a finger, cutting me off.

  "I certainly didn't say you could speak."

  I tilted my head, confusion washing through me. During our journey, despite his formality, he'd been reasonable. Even after Marcelo's appearance, his coldness had seemed calculated rather than cruel. This felt different, a deliberate assertion of dominance that didn't match the man I thought I'd come to know. And yet... something unexpected fluttered in me at the command in his voice.

  The sharp crack of Jacobi's fist against the desktop made me flinch. The sound echoed in the high-ceilinged room, bouncing off stone walls and leather-bound books.

  "Are you even paying attention?"

  I nodded once, precisely, the hurt blooming in my chest surprising me with its intensity. I'd known better than to expect anything from humans, yet somehow I'd allowed myself to hope that Jacobi was different.

  "I did not say you could move. I did not say you could speak. And I certainly did not say you could help yourself to anything on my desk."

  My jaw tightened. "I just needed a drink of water," I said, keeping my voice neutral despite my rising disappointment.

  He shook his head. "You did warn me that you're a handful. I had hoped to give you more time to settle in before beginning your training regimen, but your behavior suggests that would be a mistake."

  The anger rose hot in my throat. Words formed, sharp and cutting, ready to lash out. Instead, I pulled in a slow, deep breath, dragging my temper back beneath control. I walked to the spot he'd indicated earlier, then clasped my hands behind my back, staring straight ahead.

  His reaction didn't satisfy him. Red anger spread up his cheeks as he tried to control his own temper. He stood slowly, fists pressed against the desktop, knuckles white with pressure. His glare sliced at me from beneath lowered brows, nothing like the man who'd shared his cloak with me during a storm.

  A knock interrupted our silent battle. "What is it?" Jacobi called out.

  The door opened slowly, revealing a man whose demeanor couldn't have been more different from Jacobi's. Where Jacobi carried himself with the confidence of money and power, this man's bearing suggested practiced menace beneath a veneer of servility.

  "Deacon." Jacobi's voice cooled. "Right on time."

  My blood froze in my veins. Deacon. The monster from the auction house who'd tormented me and the other demons. The man whose face I'd scarred with my claws when he'd attacked me and that poor female demon.

  The man's face broke into a smile that never reached his eyes. Despite the four angry claw marks marring what had once been handsome features, there was recognition in his gaze, but no shock, like he'd known I would be here. "You having some trouble with your new acquisition already?"

  Jacobi lowered himself back into his chair. "Nothing unexpected. Marcelo warned me that even the most valuable specimens require firm handling from the beginning. She's just testing boundaries."

  I stiffened at the mention of Marcelo Levanth. So that's what this was about. Jacobi was following Marcelo's advice on how to handle demons, to crush any hint of resistance with overwhelming force. The casual cruelty, the deliberate dismissal of me, all to prove something to a man who wasn't even here.

  Deacon turned, his gaze crawling over my body with naked assessment. Then his eyes found my face, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, a private acknowledgment between us. He'd been expecting me. The angry red lines across his cheek stood out starkly against his weathered skin, unmistakable evidence of demon claws. My claws.

  "Fancy one like this. Must've been a good amount of coin." His eyes never left mine as he spoke, and I read the silent message there. I found you.

  "The price is immaterial," Jacobi said. "What matters is that she's properly trained for the upcoming season. That's why I've brought you in. Lord Levanth speaks highly of your methods with… difficult specimens."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "I appreciate the recommendation," Deacon replied, finally breaking our eye contact to address Jacobi. "Though I admit I was quite persistent in seeking this position once I heard about your acquisition."

  My ears pricked at this confirmation. He had deliberately sought me out. This wasn't random chance, this was calculated revenge. I'd humiliated him at the auction house, and now he intended to return the favor, with interest.

  "After what happened at the northern auction house, I have a particular interest in these creatures," Deacon continued, his tone casual but loaded with meaning only I could understand. "They require a special approach. They’re arrogant and willful beneath their civilized veneer."

  "What happened at the northern auction house?" Jacobi asked, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his cold demeanor.

  Deacon's fingers rose unconsciously to the claw marks on his face. "A regrettable incident with a feral specimen. My own carelessness." His gaze flickered to me briefly. "Cost me more than just these scars. My reputation took quite a hit when the creature escaped my control. The Chairman was... displeased."

  So that was it. Not just revenge for the physical damage, I had humiliated him professionally. The stakes were higher than mere sadistic pleasure; this was about restoring his standing among his peers. In the twisted hierarchy of demon handlers, he'd lost face, literally and figuratively. Now he sought to rebuild what I'd destroyed.

  "Well," Jacobi replied, "your expertise remains unquestioned by those who matter. Demons need a firm hand."

  His fingers brushed across the furs I still wore from my journey. The purple pelts were the one luxury and comfort I'd managed to keep through capture, transport, and auction. One small victory against those who would strip me of everything.

  "These are a bit expensive for a slave. Seem out of place."

  "I agree," Jacobi said. "Take the furs and sell them. Get what you can for them. She has no need for such trappings here."

  My eyes widened, grip tightening on the soft pelts. "You can't take these. They're mine."

  "You are mine," Jacobi thundered, rising from his desk again. "You exist now because I allow it. I do not allow you to continue wearing those ridiculous furs under the pretense of some ladyhood."

  Shock furrowed my brow. This wasn't the same man who'd shared wine with me at the inn, who'd fought alongside me against bandits. Something fundamental had changed, whether through Marcelo's influence or his own fears, I couldn't be sure. The betrayal cut deeper than I wanted to admit.

  Deacon's smile widened, the expression cold and calculating on what would have been attractive features if not for my handiwork. "You heard the Master. You don't have any belongings. You are a belonging, love. Now hand them over, or I'll take them." His fingers curled into the soft fur, nails digging into the pelts.

  I looked at Jacobi, searching for any hint of the man I'd glimpsed during our journey. Our eyes met briefly, and something flickered in his gaze, a moment of recognition, of connection, swiftly buried. Was it regret? Apology? Or merely my own wishful thinking? I wanted to believe the cruelty was a mask, but perhaps the kindness had been the true deception.

  He merely glanced at Deacon. "You heard me." Then he sat back down, attention returning to his papers. His knuckles whitened around his pen, but his face remained impassive.

  Deacon laughed. His hand cracked across my face without warning.

  The blow knocked my head sideways, skin burning where he'd struck. Anger flared in my eyes as I looked up at him. Through the stinging pain, I felt a deeper wound, Jacobi's permission for this treatment. He yanked again on the furs and they slipped from my grasp. They pooled on the floor where Deacon quickly gathered them into his arms.

  "And that wasn't so difficult, was it?"

  My gaze shifted to Jacobi. His attention remained fixed on his paperwork, deliberately avoiding the scene before him. Deacon's hand struck again, harder this time, sending me sprawling to the ground. I clutched my stomach, a groan escaping my lips.

  That sound finally caught Jacobi's attention.

  "Deacon."

  My breathing shuddered as I looked between the two men, one arm still wrapped around my stomach. Perhaps he would stop this after all.

  "Yeah, boss?"

  Jacobi gestured toward me. "I don't want to see that."

  He immediately returned to his paperwork. I stared in measured shock, the betrayal hitting harder than Deacon's hand had. Jacobi didn't just tolerate this treatment, he encouraged it, as long as it happened out of his sight. Whatever connection we'd formed during our journey had been thoroughly severed by Marcelo's influence.

  Deacon grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door, fingers digging into muscle. The taste of blood filled my mouth where my teeth had cut into my inner lip.

  The hallway stretched long and shadowed before us. Deacon pulled me forward, his grip bruising as I struggled to my feet. Movement ahead caught my attention, and I stopped struggling long enough to see another man walking toward us. He observed our struggle with something like sadness in his expression, so different from Jacobi's coldness or Deacon's cruelty.

  He nodded at Deacon, who didn't acknowledge him, then his eyes found mine. His gaze lingered on my split lip and bruised face, a small frown creasing his brow. His clothes were practical, sturdy riding trousers and a leather jerkin that showed signs of regular use. The scent of horses and fresh air clung to him, a welcome change from Deacon's cologne.

  I looked over my shoulder as he passed, noting his resemblance to Jacobi. They shared similar features, the same jawline, the same dark eyes, though this man's held none of Jacobi's careful restraint. This must be Selwyn, the brother Jacobi had mentioned during our journey. The one who trained didn’t concern himself with business matters. The man walked through Jacobi's office door without knocking and turned to shut it behind him. Just before it closed, he offered me the briefest of small smiles.

  I kept my own expression neutral, not wanting to give Deacon another reason to strike me. But inside, a tiny flicker of hope kindled at that small gesture of acknowledgment. He might prove an ally in this place. So far he was one of the few who had shown me any compassion at all.

  Deacon tightened his grip on my arm as we continued down the hallway, taking a route that led toward the east wing. "Welcome to Velez Estate, demon," he growled, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "I've been waiting for this reunion. You and I have unfinished business."

  I said nothing, the pain in my heart outweighing the pain in my face. Jacobi's betrayal cut deeper than I'd expected. I'd let myself believe he might be different, might see me as more than property. That hope had been foolish.

  "The boss has put me in charge of your training," he continued, satisfaction dripping from every word. "Lord Levanth convinced him I have a special touch with demons. And I do, don't I, Joy? You've felt it firsthand."

  "Is that why you sought this position?" I kept my voice soft. "To continue what we started at the auction house?"

  "You cost me everything that night." His fingers dug deeper into my arm as his free hand ghosted over the claw marks on his face. "One night, and suddenly I'm damaged goods. Unreliable."

  Deacon's smile held no warmth. "When I heard Jacobi Velez had purchased you, the very demon who humiliated me, I knew exactly what I had to do. Controlling you, breaking you, will restore everything I lost."

  "And if I tell Jacobi who really gave you those scars?" The question was a calculated risk, testing his reaction.

  Deacon's laugh echoed in the empty hallway. "Go ahead. Tell him. Who do you think he'll believe? His trusted expert, recommended by his old friend Marcelo? Or the demon who's already shown defiance?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Besides, do you really want to admit you attacked a human? That you're exactly the dangerous animal they all think you are?"

  In that moment, I understood with perfect clarity just how precarious my position was. Jacobi, in his fear of appearing weak before Marcelo, had handed me over to a man with everything to prove, everything to gain from my suffering. And he had no idea what he'd done.

  "Nine and a half years," Deacon whispered, his grip tightening painfully on my arm. "That's how long your contract binds you to this place. To me. I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."

  I closed my eyes briefly, the memory of Jacobi's smile at the inn floating through my mind. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The warmth in his voice when he'd spoken of his home. Had it all been pretense? Or was this cold Master the real pretense, a mask worn to please Marcelo and men like him?

  Either way, I was alone here now. Whatever connection I'd imagined between us was gone. All that remained was survival.