* * *

“Ren.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” came Ren’s reply, as he stood obediently against the wall, awaiting further orders.

“Read the contract on the table to Nael.”

Ren picked up the contract and cleared his throat.

It wasn’t long or complicated—a simple document confirming that the baron had sold Nael in exchange for money to support his family.

“For each clause you read, I’ll administer one strike.”

Ren began reading the contract slowly.

With every clause he finished, Killian’s hand came down on Nael’s exposed skin.

Though it was only his palm, Killian’s strikes were firm and unrelenting, carrying a sting as sharp as if he wore spiked gloves.

The loud, resounding smacks filled the room, accompanied by Nael’s sobs and trembling.

Realizing the baron had sold him, knowing full well what horrors awaited, was a mental blow far worse than the physical pain.

By the time Ren reached the part about ensuring his sister’s safety if Nael lived as Killian’s possession, the strikes finally stopped.

Nael’s backside was now red and bruised, with beads of blood forming on the broken skin.

The repeated blows had landed on spots already injured, leaving a sharp, radiating pain that traveled down to his feet.

His entire lower body felt foreign to him, the sensation numbed by the intensity of the punishment.

Yet, even as tears streamed down his face, Nael didn’t beg for forgiveness or plead for it to stop.

It wasn’t mere stubbornness.

He wanted to hear it all—every truth Ren’s voice could convey.

Killian gestured for the ointment, which Ren carefully placed in his hand before leaving the room.

“Leave dinner at the door and don’t return until morning.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As the red sun sank below the horizon, its reflection on the sea painted the waves in shades of blood.

They had sailed far from land; there was no turning back, no one to welcome him home.

Nael was nothing more than the Grand Duke’s possession now—a toy for his amusement.

Ignoring Nael’s hiccuping sobs, Killian applied the cold ointment generously, wiping away the blood with a clean cloth.

Each stroke of the ointment left pale streaks against the reddened skin.

Even as Nael flinched from the sting, he kept his head bowed, unwilling to lift his tear-streaked face.

He had cried so much that he knew his face must be a mess.

Killian sighed, dragging in the food trolley.

“Stop crying and eat.”

“I don’t want to.”

“And how do you plan to endure the night without strength? Should I force-feed you medicine instead? I don’t appreciate a limp, weak toy.”

“Please… I don’t want to go through this again! I’m not… I’m not something to be bought or sold!”

Overcome by emotion, Nael’s voice cracked into a wail.

His words spilled out uncontrollably until Killian’s hand struck his cheek, abruptly silencing him.

“Enough. My patience has limits.”

“…Yes, Your Grace.”

“From now on, address me as ‘Master.’ Perhaps that will help you remember your place.”

Nael nodded weakly, his face swollen and tear-streaked.

As he reached for his discarded undergarments, Killian’s boot pinned them to the floor.

“Master… please give me my clothes.”

“You won’t need them when it’s just the two of us.”

Nael, feeling embarrassed, squeezed his legs together and pulled his shirt down.

The stiff, non-elastic shirt barely covered his crotch.

Still, he tried to lower his hands to cover himself a little more.

He felt deeply ashamed that he was wearing nothing but the shirt, with no permission for any underwear.

“Take it off.”

“Master, please, just this once. I’m so, so embarrassed.”

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

As Nael hesitated, Killian’s hand reached out first, ripping the shirt off as if tearing it apart.

Buttons flew off in all directions, and the ones that didn’t fall hung precariously, swaying.

“Ugh…”

“Crying again?”

“I-I won’t cry.”

The bedroom was warm enough, but his exposed body sent shivers down his spine.

Killian sighed softly and brought the fire closer.

“The north will be even colder than this. You’ll need to get used to it.”

“Do I have to stay naked there too?”

“When it’s just the two of us, clothes won’t be necessary.”

The words were both true and false.

At this moment, it was nothing more than petty malice.

He had assumed Nael had enough time and circumstances to understand his place and accept it.

It was supposed to end with simply reading out the contract.

Yet, Nael had resisted, snapping back with his small mouth.

So, this was punishment.

“Sit.”

“…I’m not hungry.”

“There might be something you can gain from me.”

Killian spoke without sparing Nael even a glance.

Just his lips moved.

Truly detestable.

So detestable it made Nael’s chest ache.

It felt as if someone were scraping his insides with a dull potato peeler.

Determined to hurt him, Killian stripped his words of any emotion and spat out nothing but cold commands.

“Nael. Was your punishment not enough?”

No matter how much Nael begged, it was clear he wouldn’t relent.

Not even the icy chill of midwinter could be as cold as him.

Like a snail moving slowly, reluctantly, Nael dragged himself to the chair.

Though he sat on the soft cushion, his body squirmed from the pain of the blow he’d received.

The ointment applied to his wounds soaked into the cushion, making it damp, and every surface it touched stung as if embedded with thorns.

Even sitting, let alone eating, was unbearable.

Nael, twisting uncomfortably in his seat, avoided looking at Killian, whose indifference only deepened his humiliation.

Though they sat across from each other, no words passed between them.

The table was laden with unfamiliar foods.

Nael merely glanced at Killian and imitated his eating, mimicking his movements.

As the food settled into his stomach, which had been empty for two days, it let out an audible grumble, clearly satisfied.

Compared to the watery potato soup he used to subsist on, this was a feast fit for royalty.

And yet, thoughts of home weighed heavily on him, leaving him slumped as though his spirit had been left behind.

“Does it taste bad?”

“…No, sir. May I stop eating now?”

Knock, knock.

The sound of a polite knock signaled Aiden’s entrance.

Embarrassed by his half-naked state, Nael frantically searched for a place to hide, but Aiden didn’t even glance his way.

His unwavering gaze remained fixed on his lord.

To him, Nael seemed no more than a decorative object in the duke’s chambers, an existence unworthy of any acknowledgment.

Barely covering himself, Nael squirmed as if to crawl under the table.

“It’s ready.”

In Aiden’s hands was a cage draped in black cloth.

Killian gave a nod, dismissing Aiden with a brief command.

With that, Aiden left the room.

“Nael. Carrier pigeons can’t carry long letters. Only a couple of short lines.”

“…”

“If you tell me what to write, I’ll put it down for you.”

“What… what should I say…?”

He thought of countless promises with no certainty.

Apologies for not being able to say goodbye properly.

Hopes that they might meet again someday.

Pleas to stay safe until that time came.

His thoughts spun like a waterwheel, aimless and unproductive.

Tears fell again, even though he’d cried so much that he thought there were none left.

Nael didn’t know how to hide his emotions, and his eyes betrayed him once more.

“Take your time. The pigeon will stop by the baron’s nearby estate before reaching your sister. The baron doesn’t seem entirely trustworthy.”

“Sniff…”

He had hated Killian to the point of wanting him gone moments ago.

Yet the unexpected kindness of the hand that had pushed him into the abyss almost moved him to gratitude.

How foolish, to think this way of someone who wouldn’t even allow him proper clothes.

* * *