I couldn't remember the last time I felt so sick. The sedative pulsed through my veins like cold fire, dulling my senses and muddling my thoughts. My mouth tasted of copper and regret. The world around me lurched in uneven waves. Bright, then dark, then bright again. Colors bled into one another, shapes refusing to hold their form.

  I lay on the floor of the cage where they had deposited me, careful to maintain the appearance of deeper sedation than I actually felt. The drugs were wearing off, my mind gradually reassembling itself from scattered fragments. My muscles remembered the struggle before the darkness took me, the crossbow aimed at my chest, the betrayal that stung sharper than the sedative itself.

  Sam.

  Memories filtered back through the haze. The ship's arrival at the port. Sam's gentle hand helping me down the gangway. The sound of his heartbeat quickening when I spoke. The carriage ride with Deacon. The market. The underground cages. The female demon Deacon had beaten to make his point. Her whimpering still echoed in my ears.

  All of it led here. To this cage, this auction, this moment.

  I drew my shawl tighter around my body, the one thing they'd allowed me to keep. Dyed dark purple and made from the fur of some little creature, it was an extravagance I refused to part with. Running my fingers through the soft pelt, I allowed myself this small comfort amid the indignity. The texture against my skin anchored me to reality as the last effects of the sedative ebbed away. My previous owner had given it to me during a particularly harsh winter, a rare gesture of thoughtfulness that had surprised us both. Now it served as both comfort and armor, the only piece of my past I'd managed to retain.

  The fur caught the weak light filtering through the fabric walls of the tent. Through the rough canvas, distorted shadows moved across the barrier, human silhouettes casting grotesque shapes as they passed. I could hear the crowd on the other side, their laughter, their casual cruelty as they discussed prices for living beings, their excitement at the prospect of ownership. Someone was speculating loudly about the "special attributes" of female demons, to the amusement of his companions.

  The anticipation of what was to come sent contradictory sensations swirling through my body, a thrill at the unknown mixed with a cold curl of fear tightening in my stomach. I knew how bad some other Demons had it with their owners. I'd heard the stories. Demons worked to death in mines, others used for blood sport entertainment, some subjected to experiments to test the limits of demonic endurance. I never wanted to experience those circumstances myself.

  The cage itself was barely large enough for me to stretch out fully. The metal bars were cold against my skin where the shawl didn't cover. The floor was covered with straw that smelled faintly of the previous occupant's fear.

  I'd been lucky with my previous owner, though I hated that term he had insisted on using. A merchant with more wealth than sense, he'd purchased me as a status symbol more than anything else. He learned quickly that I was willful and would only do things I wanted to do. The first time he'd tried to command me to entertain his business associates by showing my "demonic nature," I'd shown it indeed, though not in the way he'd expected. After I threw him across the room that first time, he never tried anything sexual with me again. The memory still brought a small smile to my lips, his shocked expression as he flew through the air, his body crashing into an expensive vase that shattered beneath his weight.

  We reached an uneasy truce after that, me lounging around his home, him claiming me as a trophy to impress visitors. When the mood struck, I would fetch him something to drink or eat, but usually before he asked for it. I needed him to know I was doing it because I wanted to, not because he commanded it. Small rebellions in a life of servitude. His apparent mastery over such a "dangerous beast" elevated his social standing, while I enjoyed relatively comfortable accommodations and freedom from the more odious aspects of servitude.

  Sometimes in the evenings, he would read aloud from his collection of books, his voice droning on about trade agreements and merchant codes. I feigned disinterest but quietly absorbed the information, learning the laws and customs of this realm. Knowledge was its own form of power, one that humans often underestimated in those they considered inferior.

  When he got sick, his dependence on me grew, and I let it happen. I administered his medications, and kept his business associates at bay when he was too weak to entertain. I practically ran the household by the end, learning the operations of his trading company as I managed his affairs. It was an unexpected development, this responsibility, but I found I didn't mind it.

  After his death, a gradual decline rather than a sudden departure, rumors spread that I had poisoned him. Likely started by his sister who took over the estate and who, from the start, showed clear distaste at having me in the same building. Her eyes never met mine directly; she spoke to me through intermediaries as if my very presence might contaminate her. I was more than happy to leave, even knowing it meant facing the auction block again. Better the unknown than constant suspicion and thinly veiled hatred.

  The sister had invited potential buyers to view me at the estate, a small gathering of merchants and nobles curious about acquiring such an "exotic specimen." But upon meeting them, witnessing their greedy eyes and hearing their whispered plans, I knew I would not be owned by any of them. Their intentions were transparent, some wanted a bed slave, others a curiosity to torture for entertainment. I caused such a commotion that none wanted anything to do with me.

  Since being sold to the traders, I'd continued my resistance, never hurting the humans but ensuring they knew I didn't want to be there and didn't enjoy being caged. For their part, they fed their slaves regularly and let them bathe. They realized the importance of an attractive looking slave, the better and well-kept a slave looked, the more money they could command for them. Business, at least, was something I understood.

  The sounds of the auction drifted through the canvas walls, the rhythmic chant of the auctioneer, the shouts of competing bidders, the occasional gasp or exclamation as particularly desirable attributes were highlighted.

  Footsteps approached, heavy and measured. The vibrations traveled through the wooden platform beneath me, up through the cage bars, and into my bones. I kept my eyes half-closed, watching through the veil of my lashes. A pair of boots stopped outside my cage. Their leather was worn but well-maintained, nothing like the pristine, expensive footwear Deacon had worn. Small scuff marks told a story of frequent travel, of obstacles traversed, of distances covered.

  "Come on. On your feet, little fox. It's nearly time for the auction to start."

  The voice was familiar, softer than most of the traders, with a warmth that seemed genuine despite everything that had happened. I turned my head slightly toward the sound but didn't lift it from the cage floor. A groan escaped my lips as I pulled the shawl over my head, partly for effect and partly to hide the flash of confusion that crossed my face.

  Sam. After everything that had transpired last night, the chase through the market, my claws tearing through Deacon's face, Sam himself firing the sedative bolt that brought me down, here he was, speaking to me as if nothing had happened between us.

  He chuckled, the sound vibrating through the air between us. I peeked out from under the furs and saw him crouched beside my cage, his face level with mine. His eyes held shadows beneath them, evidence of a sleepless night. The stubble on his jaw was heavier than usual, his hair slightly disheveled. Despite myself, a small smile touched my lips. Even after his betrayal, there was something about him that drew me in, something genuine beneath the human exterior.

  "Sam," I whispered, my throat dry and raw. "Water. Please. My stomach feels terrible."

  The sedative had left me parched, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. But the request was also a test, to see how he would respond, to see if anything had changed between us after last night's events. Would he show compassion or caution? Guilt or indifference?

  His lips curved into that affectionate smile I'd grown familiar with during our journey. "And if I come into the cage, are you going to attack me?"

  There was a lightness to his tone that contradicted the legitimate concern behind his words. He knew what my claws had done to Deacon's face, had seen the blood, heard the screams. Yet here he was close enough for me to reach if I chose.

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  My chest tightened at the question. The memory of our confrontation hung between us, unspoken but present. I shook my head slowly, the movement sending a dull ache through my temples. The truth was, despite everything, I didn't want to hurt him. My anger was tempered by understanding. In his place, would I have chosen differently? Loyalty to one's own kind ran deep, whether human or demon.

  "You've given me no reason to attack you." The lie came easily. He had betrayed me, yes, but in his own mind, he'd only been doing his job. "You haven't treated me badly at all."

  His head tilted as he studied me, his eyes searching my face. "Did Deacon give you reason to attack him? Did he treat you badly?"

  So there it was, the acknowledgment of what had happened. I nodded but offered no further details. The memory of that other demon curled in pain on the cage floor, of Deacon's boot connecting with her ribs, was still too raw. The blood that had flowed when my claws found his face. The satisfaction I'd felt in that moment before everything went wrong.

  "Deacon may not recover fully," Sam said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone, just a statement of fact. "His face will never be the same."

  I felt no remorse, only a distant satisfaction that the man would carry a permanent reminder of his cruelty. In Naerith, such justice would be considered appropriate, the physical marking of one who had abused power. Here, I knew, it marked me as dangerous, unpredictable, a threat to be controlled.

  Sam leaned closer, his face nearly touching the bars. "Be careful, little fox. You've made an enemy with him, and he's a vindictive bastard."

  I nodded, feeling the weight of the warning. "Then I hope my new owner will protect me." The word "owner" came out with all the mocking disdain I felt for the concept.

  It didn't escape him. His smile turned gentle, almost sad. "If I had the money, little fox..." He reached through the bars of the cage, his fingers finding my hair, stroking it with a gentleness that belied his role in my captivity.

  The unfinished sentence hung between us, full of possibilities neither of us could afford to explore. If he had the money, what? Would he buy me? Free me? Keep me?

  I remained still under his touch, allowing this small intimacy despite everything. "Did they send you because they knew I wouldn't fight you?"

  A bashful smile warmed his features. "They were happy to accommodate my request to be the last one to look after you. I think they know I'm sweet on you."

  The admission surprised me. Such feelings were discouraged between handlers and their charges, I knew. Attachment complicated business.

  I turned my head, letting his palm brush against my cheek. The contact sent a small shiver through me, not entirely unpleasant despite the circumstances. "They chose well." I pressed my lips gently against his palm, feeling his pulse quicken at the contact.

  The gesture surprised us both. After last night's betrayal, yet here I was, responding to his touch as if we shared something real. Perhaps we did, in our own twisted way. A connection forged in strange circumstances, complicated by the roles we played.

  Sam withdrew his hand, the moment broken. "I'll get you that water."

  As he stood to leave, I sat up quickly. Too quickly. The world spun briefly before settling. "Can we all have water? It's very warm in these cages."

  Alliances, even temporary ones, might prove useful in whatever came next.

  His eyes softened, pride mingling with something deeper. "Of course, little fox." His gaze traced the contours of my face, lingering a moment too long. "Even in chains, you think of others before yourself."

  He turned and walked down the steps, disappearing through the fabric flap that separated us from the bidders. The absence of his presence left the air around me feeling emptier somehow, as if he'd taken something vital with him when he left.

  I didn't think I would miss anything from this slave-trading post, but if there was one thing I might, it would be Sam.

  My fingers traced the edge of my shawl absently as I waited. The fabric of the tent rustled in the slight breeze, and beneath it, I could hear the murmur of the crowd outside growing louder. The auction was progressing steadily, demons being sold one after another to their new masters. They were getting restless, eager for the final lots to be presented.

  I listened to the sound of other demons shifting in their cages around me. Some paced restlessly, others sat in resigned silence. A male with spiraling horns and ember-red eyes stared fixedly at the canvas wall, as if trying to burn through it with sheer force of will. We were all merchandise awaiting display, our value determined by attributes beyond our control, beauty, strength, rarity, compliance.

  Sam returned, carrying not just one cup of water but several. He moved from cage to cage, offering drinks to each demon waiting for their turn on the auction block. Some accepted with muttered thanks, others snatched the water with desperate thirst, a few refused entirely, as if rejecting even this small kindness from a human would preserve some fragment of dignity.

  The ones nearest me murmured grateful words in my direction, having overheard my request. I felt no particular allegiance to them, but I had no reason to let them suffer either. We were all in the same predicament, having signed years of our lives away in exchange for relative freedom in this realm.

  Beyond the canvas walls, the auction continued. I could hear everything, the auctioneer's booming voice as he extolled the virtues of each lot, the shouts of the bidders as they competed for ownership, the crude jokes made at the expense of the female demons. "This one would brighten any bedchamber!" the auctioneer called to appreciative laughter. "And gentle as a lamb, I'm told, once properly handled!"

  My stomach churned again, though whether from the lingering effects of the sedative or from anxiety about my approaching fate, I couldn't tell. The physical reality of my situation pressed in on me with each passing moment, the hardness of the cage floor beneath me, the confined space that barely allowed me to stretch my limbs, the stares of the humans who occasionally passed by to peek at the "merchandise" still waiting to be sold.

  I could escape if I wanted to. Break the cage, fight my way out. My strength was returning with each passing minute, the sedative's effects fading from my system. But that would mean breaking my contract and living the rest of my time in this realm as a hunted fugitive. That was precisely what I had escaped in my home realm of Naerith, where political machinations had made me a target. Ten years would pass quickly enough, and then I could put all this behind me. Patience had always been my particular strength.

  As the number of demons around me dwindled, I sat up fully and occupied myself with brushing my hair. No one else would have thought to leave me the hairbrush, it had to have been Sam. My fingers worked through the long strands, pulling out dried blood from where I'd been struck and smoothing the tangles. Each stroke of the brush helped center me, prepare me for what was to come.

  The rhythm of the brushing matched my breathing, steady and controlled. With each sweep through my hair, I gathered my thoughts, my resolve. I would not show fear on that auction block. I would stand tall, proud, unbroken. Let them see my value, yes, but also let them know that owning me would never mean controlling me entirely. The right buyer would understand this, would value me for my spirit rather than despite it.

  Standing, I picked up my shawl from the floor and shook it vigorously, trying to dislodge the dust and dirt. The dark purple fur rippled like wine in the dim light. Once satisfied it was as clean as possible, I wrapped it around my shoulders and tossed my hair back from my face.

  The remaining auctions proceeded quickly, the bids notably lower than earlier. Had all the wealthy buyers already spent their money? Or were they saving it, waiting for something special? I listened carefully to the pattern of bidding, trying to identify which voices appeared most frequently, which seemed to command the most resources. Knowledge of the players involved could prove valuable in what was to come.

  I realized they were leaving me for last, and I wondered if that was Sam's choice. Perhaps he hoped I would go unpurchased so he might have more time with me. Or perhaps he expected the late position would allow the remaining buyers to get into a bidding war, driving up my price. Either way, I would soon find out.

  Sam came to retrieve me, and I couldn't help but notice the grateful look on his face when he saw me standing ready. Despite everything that had happened between us the night before, part of me still responded to that look, still wanted to ease whatever burden he carried.

  "You look good, little fox." His voice was soft, meant only for me. "There are many people still out there with deep pockets. You will be a good prize for them."

  He unlocked the cage and stood back to give me room. I stepped out and waited, feeling the strange relief of being able to straighten to my full height after hours of confinement. My muscles protested briefly, then relaxed as I stretched subtly, careful not to show any weakness or discomfort.

  As he moved past me to lead the way, I caught his hand, pulling him to a stop. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly followed by a flash of fear. We both remembered what my hands were capable of, the damage my claws had done to Deacon's face. Taking advantage of that momentary uncertainty, I stepped closer and pressed my lips gently against his.

  "Thank you for looking after us," I whispered and stepped back, releasing his hand. His deep red blush made me smile, and I wrapped the furs tighter around myself. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

  Sam nodded, coughing self-consciously, and tried to wipe the grin off his face as he led me upstairs to the main stage area. I smiled at his discomfort; I hadn't been sure how he would react, but it was worth it to show him how grateful I was.

  He gestured for me to join him, and I stepped out into the bright afternoon sun and onto the main stage.