Lord Branimir of House Aurelion.
The name echoed in the silent, opulent chamber, a proclamation of her fate. The masked patrons, who had been circling her like vultures, now seemed to shrink back, their own predatory auras dimming in the face of a true apex predator.
Rulien moved with the fluid grace of a courtier, taking her hand and leading her down from the dais. Her legs were unsteady, her body a trembling, hollow thing. Her mind was a maelstrom of terror, the carefully constructed walls of her detachment crumbling into dust.
He led her before the wolf.
Lord Branimir was even more imposing up close. He was a creature of sharp, severe lines and cold, immense power. His storm-gray eyes swept over her, not with the leering interest of the other bidders, but with the cool, appraising gaze of a connoisseur inspecting a newly acquired masterpiece. It was a look of absolute, unquestionable ownership.
