“Damn it, touch me, and I’ll kill you!”
A man with gray hair, shackled at the wrists, flared up, his face flushed bright red.
He thrashed around furiously, yelling threats.
Even though the loosely draped bathrobe slid off, exposing his broad shoulders, sturdy chest, and muscular thighs that peeked out enticingly, he was too preoccupied with retreating to notice.
“I told you, I’m not going to do anything.”
“Stay back! Don’t come closer! Do you even know who I am? I’m Luke Clayton, the eldest son of the Clayton Count Family!”
It was true.
The man had once been Luke Clayton, the eldest son of the Clayton Count.
Although his circumstances had weathered him somewhat, his aristocratic air, born of a privileged upbringing, still clung to him.
“You were freaking out, so I was just going to unlock your cuffs. Plus, you need proper clothes. Now hold still!”
“Damn it! I said, stay back! Get lost, you bastard!”
“Agh!”
He got kicked. True to form for a swordsman who’d trained his body to the extreme, the speed of the kick was no joke.
“I said I wouldn’t touch you! I’m not going to!”
“A healthy guy like you buying a male sex slave? And then messing around with my—my body!”
For the last time, that’s not what happened!
Herace felt like his head was going to explode.
The misunderstanding started when the slave trader sent Luke over “prepared” for service, but Herace genuinely had no such intentions.
And besides—
‘This is a fantasy novel, damn it!’
If a man like Herace laid a hand on a man like Luke—or did anything remotely sexual with him—
‘That would turn this into a BL novel!’
And that was unacceptable for Herace, who had been tasked with a very important mission.
To explain that mission, we’ll need to rewind time a little.
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