Killure felt like he could do anything. Energy surged through his body, then into his limbs and back again. If someone had asked him to move a mountain, he wouldn't have doubted that he could.

But crowd wasn't staring at him. No, their attention was on the petite Designer in his arms. They looked on in awe and wonder as he stood up and carried her away.

Her sister, who reminded Killure of a disfigured rat, had fainted, and lay pathetically on the ground. Even unconscious, her face was still distorted in anger. Ugly.

The crowd was dead silent.

Suddenly, a rock flew towards them. Someone had chucked it at his master, hoping to hit her.

He didn't even have to deflect it.

A barrier of rich, blue light shot out from the unconscious Designer's hands, and the rock bounced harmlessly off it towards the ground.

She wasn't even conscious, and the power inside her was still protecting them.

No one dared to try and follow; not even the brother of the man he'd murdered in cold blood.

Killure glanced down at his master as he leapt into the air and spread his wings to fly, and silently marvelled. He'd never heard of a Designer being able to do something like this before. Heal? Sure. But create energy shields? Never.

When she'd first told him to cover them both with his wings, he hadn't trusted her. In fact, he was certain that she was trying to save her own hide and allow him to die, using him as a shield.

But for a reason that even he couldn't understand, he'd done it anyway. Perhaps it was his disregard for his own life, but more likely, it was based on everything he'd seen since being sold to her.

She'd never regarded him with distain, or treated him like he was less than her—despite the fact that he was.

She'd never even hit him, and heaven knew he'd said plenty enough rude things to her to deserve it. She'd even saved him, for some unfathomable reason, despite the fact that it could cost her everything. Why would she risk that on him?

Killure's other masters always roughed him up whenever they were bored. And despite the fact that he could have easily and effortlessly snapped their necks in half a second, he never did, because that would ensure his own death through the bonding chip, and that would make his efforts meaningless. Killing one monster wouldn't bring down a society of monsters—a new, crueller one would only rise up and take its place.

Killure's home was gone. His people were gone.

There was nothing left. No one left.

Until she came along with those big, glossy green eyes and doll-like face, and showed him what kindness was.

He'd intended on killing her that first night. Fantasized about it every time he looked at her, every time she looked at him, and every time she spoke.

He'd known the bonding would kill him, but he didn't care this time. As long as she and the rest of her family died slow, torturous deaths, and then burned, he would die happily knowing he ruined any chance of them coming back to life. He'd make a difference.

He'd followed her complacently like a placent dog into the house, trying to get as close to the terrible Goldridges as he could. The hatred that flowed through him was unrivalled.

He wanted her to die. He wanted them all to die for what they'd done. For what Bericc Goldridge and his sons had done.

And then, right when he thought he had her entirely figured out, she asked him that question that caught him entirely off guard.

I want to know how long people have been telling you that you're only alive to serve, and that your wishes and desires don't matter.

He remembered the way she'd said it, too. The soft, tender look in her eyes. It had made him want to claw those emerald eyes out and make her scream. Let her feel a hint of the pain he'd been dealt. Little miss perfect knew nothing.

He didn't want her pity, but he also didn't know why she was wasting her time pitying him in the first place. Even being regarded with pity was foreign to him.

He'd assumed she must be lying to him, or that she was some sick kind of twisted person who got off on playing games with her slaves' minds.

She hadn't stopped there, though. She'd added more.

What you want does matter. It may not have mattered to others, but it matters to me.

He just simply hadn't expected it.

Of course he didn't believe her, but her words still left him shook.

Nothing she did from that point onward was ever what he expected, and although that usually annoyed him, it also made him curious.

It was never good for a slave to become curious.

And yet, here he was. Wondering how a societal error like her had happened. Why was she so different from everyone else? Why did she feel guilt? It was such a foreign emotion in their society. How was the difference between right and wrong ingrained so strongly in her, while everyone else he knew lacked any semblance of a conscience?

Killure had only felt guilt and regret once before, and that instance was buried deep within his mind. Other than that, none of what he did made him feel bad, and yet it made his pretty little master tear up.

But she'd never ostracized him for anything he'd done, even when it made her upset. She only helped him back up and said nothing. Wrapped her clean hand around his bloody one and held on tight.

It didn't make sense to him.

'There's definitely something wrong with her,' Killure concluded decisively.

He landed silently on the ground, then retracted his wings. After readjusting his hold on her, he followed the long walkway up to the Goldridge's estate.

She was so tiny—almost weightless. Fragile. Breakable.

Everything he hated.

But at the same time, didn't.

He almost wanted to . . . protect her.

Killure shuddered at the realization. There must be something wrong with him.

The pond off to his left caught his eye. The pond that he'd first noticed upon coming here.

The fish inside were flashy and showy, just like the city's elite. Every time he passed by them, they always darted and pranced around like they were royalty.

And just like him, they were trapped in a cage that they couldn't escape.

He liked to go over there and watch them, sometimes. It was almost comforting knowing he wasn't alone in his cage.

The mansion looming before them was absolutely ridiculous. It casted deep shadows across the oversized yard with no regard for the grass and flowers trying to grow.

Pompous, just like the rest of them.

Killure never understood why anyone would need a house this big. The Goldridges were a big family, yes, but someone could house an entire army battalion here and still have plenty of room left over.

Killure paused a moment before walking in, and then pushed open the door.

They never bothered with security like most lords and dukes, because once again, Goldridge pride wouldn't allow it. Besides, if they died, they could be resurrected.

Not that the little Designer in his arms was anything like the rest of her prideful family. She was different.

For some reason, she'd been willing to die for him. Give up everything.

He believed her now.

As soon as Killure stepped through the walkway, his master's pathetic excuse for a father came rushing forward.

He was wide eyed and gaping, like a fish. An ugly fish who deserved to die.

"My baby!" the man cooed, running up to the young woman in Killure's arms.

His master's uncle walked through the doorway soon after, arms crossed. His expression was as solemn as ever. Killure could feel the disgust coming off of him. "Slave! What happened?"

Killure didn't particularly know where to begin. A lot had happened. Even he didn't know how to explain some of it.

He didn't have to say anything, though.

Before Killure could do much more than part his lips to speak, the heavy pounding of horse hooves sounded, shaking the ground and rattling the front door.

Killure stepped out of the way just as the doors burst open, nearly flying off their hinges.

Oh, the rat sister had arrived.

Her horse stomped its feet and whinnied angrily, tossing its head back and forth and hopping on its back feet.

Of course it doesn't want her riding it. Because really, what horse wants to be told what to do by a mere rat?

Killure peered down at his master's angelic face and then back up at the swine who was supposedly related to her.

Perhaps she'd been accidentally switched at birth and given to the wrong family. That would explain it. There was simply no resemblance.

Also, it didn't help that the ugly sister's face was contorted into an expression of pure rage and had narrowed her eyes in hatred at the bundle in his arms. Sweat shone on her skin. He shuddered inwardly. The only person Killure wanted to see with sweat on her bare skin was his master.

Definitely not a good look on the rat sister. He didn't even think that the paint many women put on their face to enhance their features could help that face out.

"Faye? Darling, what's wrong?" her father pursed his lips and tried to give her a hug.

She swatted him away.

"What's wrong, father dear, is that my sister ordered a hit on my fiancé and got away with it!" Faye screamed at the top of her lungs.

Her shrill, annoying voice painfully clawed its way into Killure's sensitive ears. He grimaced. If his arms weren't currently occupied, he'd be rudely clamping his hands over his ears.

Killure closed his eyes and breathed in deeply in order to stop himself from cutting out the swine's tongue.

"The Lord Gallanthus is dead?" their uncle asked for confirmation. Unless Killure was mistaken, the stoic man didn't look angry.

He almost looked . . . pleased.

"He killed him!" Faye pointed a finger at Killure. "And for that, I'll kill both you and my sister! Right here, and right now!"

And before anyone could make a move to stop her, Faye quickly withdrew blades from inside her coat and, without a hint of hesitation, flung them two at a time at Remi in a rage, with deadly precision.