Anne is a familiar face in the markets, a tall pale woman that some slaves draw away from instinctively. Her cold blue eyes sweep the auction block before landing on the wolf. Not one of the demons she tended to gravitate toward, but he looked...interesting.
She's not sure if she wants to break him or rebuild him. She's not sure whether she'd make him love her or hate her. But she wants to play with him. See what makes him tick.
It's an impulse, but he is the best offering on the block today. She's already decided to make him hers.
Ben gazes at her from hooded eyes, carefully keeping his head down in an acceptable beaten-slave attitude. Something about her sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine, and the attendant has to give him a shove between the shoulder blades to make him step forward so she can see him better. He clenches his fists behind his back, although his expression doesn't change from the blankness he wears like a mask.
"He's well-trained, Mistress," the attendant says, turning Ben this way and that like a carney on the midway, showing off the muscle definition. "Bit banged up, but some likes 'em that way, and there's nothin' physically wrong with 'im."
Speaking of muscle definition, the ones in Ben's jaw jump as he clenches his teeth. He hates this, with every fiber of his being.
"Nothing physically wrong, right. What about mentally? Emotionally? Is he a loose cannon?" She runs her eyes over him in a slow elevator gaze before nodding her acknowledgment of how true the attendant's words are.
She folds her arms over her chest, closing up as much as he is, not showing her thoughts blatantly where he can see them, any more than he's letting his be known. Let's play statues, or ice sculptures--see who lets their hand show first.
Ben loves being talked about like he's not standing right there. It's the best thing ever. His eyes start a slow smolder. The attendant shifts uneasily from one foot to another. Ben's history is in his papers, and there's no hiding that. "He's a bit of an escape artist. And, ah. His last owner disappeared under mysterious circumstances."
What he means is that they never found the body and Ben set the house on fire. That guy had been a piece of work. A corner of Ben's mouth curls up, involuntarily, at the memory. It's not at all a nice expression. The attendant hastily adds, "But I'm sure ye could take 'im in hand, Mistress." His voice turns to an oozing wheedle, buttering her up. "Ye seem plenty capable."
"Oh, snarl at me. It's not the first time I've seen a wolf's teeth." This is addressed to Ben, accepting the dark blaze in his eyes as something she deserves. Something they all deserve for caging him and all the other noble beasts. "What is your name?"
Ben inhales sharply, and his eyes come up. She wasn't supposed to see that. But it was an order, and he knows better than to disobey when he's standing on an auction block wearing only a pair of shorts and a set of shock shackles with matching collar. So he bares his fangs at her, as briefly as he thinks he can get away with, before dropping his gaze again. "Ben Lockwood, Mistress." His voice is low-pitched, without the least bit of rebellion in it.
Which, in itself, is almost insolent. Almost. The attendant gives him a sharp poke in the ribs. "Ye'll mind yer manners, wolf." He turns back to the customer. "He's quick to obey, at least."
She's not sure if she wants to break him or rebuild him. She's not sure whether she'd make him love her or hate her. But she wants to play with him. See what makes him tick.
It's an impulse, but he is the best offering on the block today. She's already decided to make him hers.
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"He's well-trained, Mistress," the attendant says, turning Ben this way and that like a carney on the midway, showing off the muscle definition. "Bit banged up, but some likes 'em that way, and there's nothin' physically wrong with 'im."
Speaking of muscle definition, the ones in Ben's jaw jump as he clenches his teeth. He hates this, with every fiber of his being.
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She folds her arms over her chest, closing up as much as he is, not showing her thoughts blatantly where he can see them, any more than he's letting his be known. Let's play statues, or ice sculptures--see who lets their hand show first.
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What he means is that they never found the body and Ben set the house on fire. That guy had been a piece of work. A corner of Ben's mouth curls up, involuntarily, at the memory. It's not at all a nice expression. The attendant hastily adds, "But I'm sure ye could take 'im in hand, Mistress." His voice turns to an oozing wheedle, buttering her up. "Ye seem plenty capable."
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Which, in itself, is almost insolent. Almost. The attendant gives him a sharp poke in the ribs. "Ye'll mind yer manners, wolf." He turns back to the customer. "He's quick to obey, at least."
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