The morning before the arena, Seraphina casually opened her coin pouch and dropped it on the table with a satisfying clink.
Rhys blinked. "That is… not the sound of a broke noble."
"I've diversified my income streams," she said sweetly.
Lucien didn't look up from his ledgers. "You blackmailed someone, didn't you."
She stirred her tea. "Oh Lucien, if I told you every time I monetized a secret, you'd never sleep again."
The pouch had been a gift—from the Viscount's son, specifically, in exchange for Seraphina's silence on an unfortunate outfit, a private club, and a pair of fishnet stockings that were definitely not regulation church attire.
She wasn't proud.
She was rich.
...
The arena was a temporary structure—wooden beams, iron fencing, and the distinct aroma of sweat, blood, and poor life decisions. Spectators hollered from every corner, most of them drunk, most of them betting with money they didn't technically own.
Seraphina leaned elegantly on the railing, ignoring the chaos around her.
Her eyes were on him.
The fighter stood at the center, chest heaving, face blank, fists dripping with someone else's bad ideas. He didn't celebrate his victory. He didn't even raise his hands. He just stood still, a breathing statue of barely restrained violence in braided hair and scars.
"Name?" Seraphina asked the auctioneer beside her.
"They call him Thorne," the man said, grinning nervously. "Former soldier. Deserted the front. Killed his commanding officer. Very stabby. Untrained in etiquette."
She tilted her head. "And price?"
"Uh… negotiable. Most buyers back out after they meet his eyes."
She looked at Thorne again.
He was glaring at the crowd like he wanted it to catch fire.
"I'll take him."
"Are you sure?"
She smiled without warmth. "I make excellent use of things people are afraid of."
---
Thirty minutes and one mildly shady contract later, Thorne stood shirtless in the foyer of House Ashgrave, glaring at everyone like they were ghosts he hadn't finished haunting.
Lucien stared at him.
Rhys stared harder.
Lord Snobberly hissed from atop the bookshelf and then immediately fell asleep again.
Thorne said nothing.
Seraphina walked up to him, heels clicking like punctuation.
"Do you understand what you are now?" she asked.
Thorne's voice was gravel wrapped in silk. "Property."
"No," she said, stepping closer, voice low and even. "You're a weapon. And unlike the idiots who left you to rot in a pit, I don't waste sharp things."
He didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened. Just slightly.
She handed him a shirt. He didn't take it.
"Rules are simple," she said. "You don't kill anyone unless I say so. You protect the estate. You terrify people when I need it. And in exchange?"
He looked at her. Finally.
"…What?"
"You get a purpose," she said. "And a bath."