The fucking pervert!
Sabrina seethed beneath her carefully neutral expression. Damien's hand remained glued to her ass as they walked through town. He wasn't squeezing anymore, just... keeping it there, his palm hot against her through the thin fabric of her dress. Like marking territory.
Every step felt like another humiliation. The townspeople stared, their eyes following the disgraced noble and his red-eyed companion. Whispers trailed behind them.
"Did you see—"
"The Valtor boy groping that poor girl—"
"Slave crest, you know. Can't refuse—"
Gods, she hated him. Five years of servitude, and the younger Damien had been bad enough with his crude comments and occasional "accidental" touches. But this new version was somehow worse—more confident, more deliberate in his actions.
"Ah, the market square," Damien announced as they entered a wider area filled with stalls. Merchants hawked their wares—vegetables, meats, fabrics, tools. Most looked worn down, their goods sparse compared to Capital markets. "What a pathetic display."
His voice carried. Too loud. Deliberately so.
A vegetable seller nearby flinched.
"Is this truly the best this town can offer?" Damien waved dismissively at a display of somewhat wilted cabbages. "These wouldn't feed pigs in Aurelia."
The merchant, an older man with sun-weathered skin, bowed his head. "Forgive the quality, my lord. The soil's been poor these past seasons."
"Perhaps you should try harder," Damien replied. "Though I suppose mediocrity is the standard here."
Sabrina wanted to sink into the earth. The merchant's shoulders hunched further, decades of hard work dismissed in a single moment by some spoiled brat.
"I'll take three." Damien pointed at what looked like the best cabbages.
The merchant blinked in surprise. "Three, my lord?"
"Are you deaf as well as incompetent? Yes, three." Damien released Sabrina's backside to fish inside his jacket, pulling out a small purse. He extracted a gold coin—enough to buy fifty cabbages—and tossed it onto the table.
"Keep the change. Perhaps you can buy better seeds."
The merchant stared at the gold coin, mouth hanging open. "My lord, this is far too—"
"I decide what's too much," Damien snapped. "Wrap them."
The same pattern repeated at each stall. Damien would loudly criticize the quality, insult the merchant, then purchase their goods at outrageous prices. A loaf of bread, several apples, a wheel of cheese, dried meat strips—all purchased with casual disdain and gold coins.
"We need something to carry all this," Damien declared, stopping at a basket-weaver's stall. A young woman sat working reeds into a large basket.
"You call these baskets?" Damien picked one up, examining it critically. "The weave is uneven. A child could do better."
The woman's face flushed red. "I've been weaving baskets for ten years, my lord."
"Then you've wasted ten years. I'll take this one."
Another gold coin changed hands.
By the time they left the market square, Sabrina carried a basket laden with food, and at least six merchants stood in shock, clutching gold coins worth ten times what they'd sold.
"Why are you doing this?" Sabrina asked, then immediately regretted the question.
Damien's hand returned to her ass, giving it a firm squeeze. "What did I tell you about questions?"
She bit her lip. "I apologize, my lord."
His hand remained there, possessive, as they walked toward the eastern edge of town where ramshackle structures formed the slums. Tents made of ragged cloth. Shacks built from scavenged wood. The poorest of Harrow's End lived here, those who couldn't afford proper housing but had nowhere else to go.
A small figure darted from between two structures. A boy, perhaps six or seven, barefoot and dirty, ran directly up to them. Before Sabrina could warn him off, he reached out and touched Damien's expensive coat with grimy fingers.
"Please, sir," the boy said, eyes wide with desperation. "Do you have food? My sister's sick. We ain't eaten in two days."
For a moment—just a flicker—something crossed Damien's face. Compassion. Genuine concern. Sabrina almost didn't believe she'd seen it.
Then his features twisted into disgust. "Ew! Unhand me, you filthy peasant!" He shook the boy's hand off his coat. "Where are your parents? They must teach you what manners are!"
The boy stepped back, frightened by the outburst. "They died, sir. Last monster raid took 'em both."
"Well, it's their fault for being so weak," Damien sniffed. "They should have fought harder."
Tears welled in the child's eyes.
Sabrina wanted to comfort him, to apologize for her master's cruelty, but the slave crest prevented her from contradicting Damien publicly. She could only watch in silent fury as the boy's shoulders slumped.
"Take me to your hovel," Damien commanded. "I wish to see how the truly pathetic live."
The boy hesitated, then nodded, turning to lead them between the makeshift dwellings. They stopped before a structure that barely deserved to be called a shack—just planks nailed together with gaps between them, a torn sheet serving as a door.
Inside, seven more children huddled together. The oldest looked no more than twelve, the youngest a toddler cradled in the arms of a thin girl with a feverish sheen to her skin. All turned to stare at the noble in fine clothes standing in their doorway.
"Disgusting," Damien proclaimed, looking around the tiny space. "This is worse than a pig sty."
Sabrina's hands tightened on the basket handle. She'd never hated anyone more than she hated Damien Valtor in that moment.
"Here," Damien suddenly said, taking the basket from her and setting it on the dirt floor. "Take all of this."
The children stared at the basket, then at him, uncomprehending.
"Are you stupid as well as dirty? It's food. Take it."
The oldest boy approached cautiously, as if expecting Damien to snatch it away as a cruel joke. When he didn't, the boy looked inside and gasped.
"Thank you, m'lord!"
"Don't thank me. I simply hate filth." Damien brushed invisible dirt from his sleeves. "If you want to become unfilthy, come to the big house on the hill. Ask for Damien Valtor, the best young master ever. Perhaps I'll find uses for you."
He turned and strode out of the shack, leaving the children scrambling for the food. Sabrina followed, confused by the contradiction she'd just witnessed.
His words were poison. His actions, a bizarre antidote. He had given them enough food to last a week, all while sounding like he wanted them to starve."
"Why did you do that?"