His "maintenance" did not last. The tiny crack in the wall, with its precious, agonizing sounds of the city, was sealed again by morning. The moment of... almost-kindness... vanished.
Maher Xander reverted to the cold, logical creditor. The lessons resumed, and they were harder, colder. Rossie was forced to learn complex genealogies of the Djinn houses, the specific alloys that could harm a Kuntilanak of royal blood, and the unspoken laws of barter at the Pasar Gaib.
It was at the Pasar that the next shift occurred.
She was walking exactly two steps behind him, as she had been taught. Her iron mute bracelet was cold on her wrist. Her gaze was down, her posture submissive but not cowardly. She was, by all appearances, the perfect, well-behaved, and completely "neutered" human pet.
Maher was concluding business with a Naga—a creature that manifested as a river of liquid gold, coiled in the rafters of a vast, unseen chamber beneath the city. The Naga was a banker of sorts, and the negotiation was tense, filled with silences that vibrated with power.
Rossie was irrelevant. She was furniture. And she was bored.
Her gaze, against her better judgment, drifted. The market was less crowded tonight, but the patrons were of a higher "quality." She saw figures in cloaks of pure shadow, women with skin that shone like mother-of-pearl, and a man whose head was a cage of burning butterflies.
Her eyes landed on him.
He was new. He was not a creature of fur, or smoke, or earth. He was, to her human eyes, breathtakingly beautiful. He looked like a prince from a Persian miniature, with skin the color of rich tea, eyes like burning amber, and a relaxed, arrogant posture that rivaled Maher's. He wore silks of impossible blue, and the air around him smelled of saffron and ozone.
He was a Djinn. Not a merchant-class Djinn, but a noble. He was watching her.
Rossie's blood ran cold. She snapped her gaze back to the ground. Do not engage. Do not show fear. Do not be a liability.
But it was too late. He had seen her.
Maher concluded his business. "The terms are... acceptable," he said to the Naga. He turned, expecting Rossie to be in her precise, pre-determined spot.
She was. But the Djinn noble was now standing ten feet away, a slow, appreciative smile on his face.
"Xander," the Djinn's voice was like velvet and chimes. "You have been holding out on us."
Maher went completely, unnaturally still. He did not turn to the Djinn. He simply... stopped. The temperature in the immediate area dropped by ten degrees.
"Prince Tariq," Maher's voice was a flat, lethal monotone. "You are far from your territory."
"One must travel, to find new... acquisitions," Tariq said. His amber eyes never left Rossie. He was not speaking to Maher; he was speaking at him, but to her. "You have found yourself a rare one. A true human, not one of these half-blooded, diluted things. And so... vibrant, even under that iron choke-chain. She smells of... Aurora."
He knew her bloodline. Rossie felt faint.
Maher stepped, a small, fractional movement, placing himself slightly more in front of her. It was a subtle, almost unconscious act of blocking.
"She is mine," Maher said. It was not a boast. It was not a threat. It was a simple, unadorned, cosmic fact.
The Djinn, Tariq, laughed. It was a beautiful sound, and it made Rossie's teeth ache.
"Oh, everything is yours, isn't it, Creditor?" he mused. "The debts, the contracts, the shadows. You are a collector. But all collections can be... appraised. What is her price? I have... resources... you do not."
He took a step.
"Stay. Where. You. Are," Maher hissed.
Tariq ignored him. He was a Prince. He was arrogant. He was stupid.
He took another step, closing the distance. He was now in their personal space. He looked directly at Rossie, his amber eyes burning with a heat that was entirely different from Maher's silver ice.
"Tell me, little human," Tariq whispered, lifting a hand, "what would you trade for one hour of warmth? One hour of..."
He reached out, his finger aimed for her chin.
The thing that happened next was not logical. It was not a negotiation. It was not "business."
It was pure, primal, violence.
Maher did not move a foot. He moved an eon.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he had crossed the five feet separating them. He was not holding a weapon, but his hand had become one.
He seized Tariq's outstretched wrist.
A sound cracked through the market. Not the sound of a struggle, but the sound of ice, a thousand-ton glacier, shattering.
Power, raw and black and ancient, exploded from Maher. It was not the cold, controlled power of his penthouse; this was the rage of an owner.
The silks on Tariq's arm froze, turning brittle, cracking with frost. The Djinn's skin, a moment ago so warm, turned a mottled blue. The scent of saffron was replaced by the sharp, sterile smell of a freezer.
Tariq screamed. It was not a human sound. It was a shriek of fire and wind, extinguishing.
"She. Is. Not. For. Appraisal," Maher enunciated, each word a hammer blow of killing intent.
He twisted.
A sound of snapping bone and tearing ligament echoed in the sudden, absolute silence of the market. Every creature, from the lowest Genderuwo to the highest Naga, had frozen.
Tariq fell to his knees, clutching his ruined, frostbitten, and clearly broken arm. His beautiful face was a mask of shock and agony. He had miscalculated, horrifically.
Maher Xander stood over him. He was no longer a CEO, no longer a patron, no longer a cold, logical being.
He was a monster. His shadow, untethered, had expanded, covering the stall, swallowing the red lanterns. His silver eyes were not glowing, they were black, sucking in all light.
"You will leave my city, Prince," Maher whispered, his voice a dead, hollow wind. "You will not return. And if you ever look at what is mine again... I will unmake you, piece by piece, until your very concept is forgotten. Am I understood?"
Tariq, broken and humiliated, could only gasp, "Yes... yes, Lord."
Maher did not offer a hand. He did not watch him go. He simply turned, his shadow retracting, his form becoming "Maher" again.
He turned to Rossie.
She was pressed against the bone-white stall, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with a new, fresh terror.
She had been terrified of him for weeks. But this... this was different. This was a thousand times more frightening than any of his cold, psychological torments.
This was the real Maher. The one who had existed for 500 centuries. The one who could unmake a Prince.
He looked at her, his face a perfect, calm mask. His eyes were silver again.
He saw her terror. He saw her shaking. He saw her staring at him as if he were the devil himself.
A strange, complex emotion flickered in his eyes. Was it... regret? No. Not regret.
It was... annoyance.
He was annoyed that she had seen that. He was annoyed that she was afraid, again, after all his "lessons."
He stepped toward her. She flinched, a small, violent, full-body recoil.
That one, tiny movement—that flinch—seemed to shatter his composure more than Tariq's insult ever could.
His face hardened. The coldness returned, absolute.
He grabbed her arm—not the one with the bracelet, her other arm—in a grip of iron.
"You are mine, Rossie," he hissed, his voice low, for her alone. "You seem to require... frequent... reminders."
He did not take her "home." He did not pull her through a canvas "door."
He dragged her, in front of the entire, silent, watchful market, back the way they came, his pace a brutal, long-legged stride that forced her to run to keep up.
She was terrified. She was humiliated.
But as he pulled her through the shadows, a horrifying, treacherous thought cut through her fear.
Tariq had called her "Aurora." He had seen her as a person.
Maher had just... defended her. Not as a person. But as a possession.
And the most sick, twisted, angst-filled part of her... the part that had been starved for any sign of value... was clinging to that simple, brutal, terrifying fact.
He had not let another man touch her.