I bought a breathtakingly handsome and sculpted werewolf slave from the magic black market.

His rock-hard abs were on full display, and his deep V-lines pointed straight down into his tight, low-slung pants.

But once I got him home, it was clear something was very wrong.

A low, suppressed growl rumbled constantly in his throat.

He stared at me with his golden wolf eyes, looking like he wanted to tear me apart and devour me whole. His body burned like a walking furnace.

I thought he had wolfsbane fever and frantically contacted the seller.

The seller was silent for three seconds after hearing my description.

[My dear witch, is it possible he isn't sick, but just...hungry?]

[The kind of hungry...that makes a werewolf want to pin you to a wall and sink his fangs into your neck to mark you?]

I bought a breathtakingly handsome and sculpted werewolf slave from the magic black market.

His rock-hard abs were on full display, and his deep V-lines pointed straight down into his tight, low-slung pants.

But once I got him home, it was clear something was very wrong.

A low, suppressed growl rumbled constantly in his throat.

He stared at me with his golden wolf eyes, looking like he wanted to tear me apart and devour me whole. His body burned like a walking furnace.

I thought he had wolfsbane fever and frantically contacted the seller.

The seller was silent for three seconds after hearing my description.

[My dear witch, is it possible he isn't sick, but just...hungry?]

[The kind of hungry...that makes a werewolf want to pin you to a wall and sink his fangs into your neck to mark you?]

...

I blew my life savings on a top-tier werewolf slave from the black market.

The listing was written in bold: Top-tier Alpha bloodline. Cold, strong, and wild.

But what really sold me was the final attribute listed: strong.

That word seemed tailor-made for the disaster that was my potion workshop.

I barely hesitated before maxing out my credit card.

The moment the payment went through, a magical message from the seller popped up.

[Seller: Miss Cici, about the werewolf you've purchased, I must remind you of something.]

[Me: Hm? Is there a problem with the delivery?]

[Seller: No, we have plenty in stock.]

[Seller: The one you've chosen, while of our highest-grade bloodline, is extremely wild and difficult to tame. For a witch living alone like yourself, we usually recommend a more docile Omega, or one that has already been tamed.]

I replied in a flash:

[No, I want this one. A docile one can't do heavy lifting. I need someone strong, durable, and with good stamina.]

After all, my cauldron weighs half a ton. How could one of those delicate Omegas possibly move it?

The seller was silent for a moment, then finally sent a message tinged with a subtle pity:

[Seller: Very well, since you insist. We wish you...a long and happy life.]

Two days later, there was a knock on my workshop door. Standing outside was a tall, overwhelmingly imposing man.

Even though I had prepared myself, the sight of him still made my breath catch in my throat.

They say the black market's werewolf slaves are famous for their beauty and wildness, but this was on another level.

He had rare, silver-white hair, cut short. His shoulders were broad, tapering to a narrow waist defined by lean, fluid muscle.

A pair of fluffy wolf ears rose from his hair, and a matching silver-white wolf tail swished behind him.

And his eyes...they were golden. Cold and sharp, yet smoldering with a deep, bottomless fire.

"Master."

He spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. My heart hammered, and I felt my cheeks flush.

It was a strangely strong reaction.

I cleared my throat, trying to school my expression. "Don't call me Master. It sounds like we're in some kind of dark ritual."

I struggled to maintain my dignity as a witch. "Call me Cici. Do you have a name?"

"Bruce."

He stood there, bound tightly by glowing magical chains that dug into his powerful muscles, restricting his every move.

"These chains... they are tight," Bruce said, his gaze sweeping toward the open door behind me. I couldn't guess what he was calculating.

"Would you release me?"

He watched me closely, his muscles coiled tight.

"Fine," I murmured.

I stepped right into his space and pressed my palm flat against his chest.

Slowly, I dragged my hand down, letting my fingers glide over his hard pectorals.

As I touched him, the chains shattered.

I continued the slide downward, my fingertips grazing his waist before accidentally brushing the sensitive, taut muscle at his hip bone.

"Ngh..." Bruce's body went rigid, and a deeply suppressed groan rumbled in his throat.

The sound was strange, almost pained, and it made my own ears burn. I snatched my hand back as if scalded.

"Sorry! Did I hurt you? "

Bruce lowered his gaze, a complex emotion flashing in his golden eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed as an even deeper growl rumbled in his throat.

"No," he rasped, his voice even rougher than before. "I just wasn't ready."

Seeing he was fine, I stood up. "I need to check everything. I'm taking the rest off."

I grabbed his wrists, and the manacles shattered.

Then I knelt down and held his ankles to break the final chains.

Bruce looked up, his golden eyes wide with disbelief. "You released my hands and feet? Aren't you afraid I will run?"

"Run?" I tilted my head to the side, blinking up at him with wide, confused eyes.

I tapped my cheek thoughtfully."But... I've studied magic for so, so long. If you managed to escape from right under my nose, it would just mean my skills aren't good enough yet, right? It would prove I still have a lot to learn."

Bruce stared at me for a long moment. The wild aggression in his eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by a flicker of something else.

"No," he rasped, his voice even rougher than before. "I won't run."

My eyes lit up, and my heart seemed to melt. What a good wolf!

I looked over his physique again: broad shoulders, a tight waist, and rippling muscles. The more I looked, the more satisfied I was.

He was perfect for the job. I should treat him well.

So I decided to soothe him. "Don't be nervous. Why don't you go rest on the sofa for a bit? We have a lot of important work to do later."

Bruce froze. His golden eyes stared intently at me, his gaze sliding from my lips to my neck before finally settling on my collarbone.

"If you wish," he took half a step closer, his warm breath fanning across my forehead. "We can start now."

"Now?" I glanced around my messy workshop, hesitating.

"Hmm... I guess so. The sooner we start, the sooner we can finish."

"Alright."

Bruce's powerful frame trembled, the low growl in his throat seeming to deepen.

"Stop shaking." I grabbed Bruce's wrist, but his skin was so hot I immediately pulled my hand back.

The skin beneath my fingers felt like searing iron, and his muscles were hard as rock.

I wasn't very experienced. Was this what a top-tier werewolf's body was like?

"Bruce, relax."

"I know it's your first time, so it's normal to be nervous. Once we get moving and you work up a sweat, you'll feel better."

"Come with me." I tried to make my voice gentle as I led him to the basement.

When I opened the door, the strong smell of sage, sulfur, and potion residue hit me in the face.

Bruce stopped in his tracks, taking in the room: herb scraps scattered across the floor, thick leather straps hanging from a heavy wooden beam, and a long, scorch-marked table in the center.

His expression turned a little strange. "In here?"

"That's right. There's plenty of space. It's a bit messy, but feel free to go wild," I said, pushing him toward the center of the room.

"And this is..."

I watched as he bumped his head against the dangling leather straps.

"Uh, if you want to use the straps, I guess you can," I said thoughtfully. "They're usually for holding things in place, but if you're afraid you can't control yourself..."

After all, some potions have side effects. It would be a real pain if he knocked something over.

He paused, then said, "If that is your command, I will comply."

I nodded, satisfied. This top-tier werewolf was obedient, just as advertised.

I turned and pulled a rag that had probably never been washed from a mountain of junk in the corner, shoving it into Bruce's hands.

Then I pointed to the giant brass cauldron next to us, which weighed at least half a ton and was caked with a thick layer of black potion residue.

"Alright, Bruce. Since you have so much stamina, let's not waste any time."

"See this cauldron? I want it shining like a mirror within the hour. Scrub hard, got it?"

"...Scrub...the cauldron?" The sight of the handsome Bruce holding that filthy rag was so absurd I almost laughed.

But he didn't move, his wolf ears standing ramrod straight.

After a full five seconds, he finally managed to speak. "You spent your life savings on me... just so I could scrub your cauldron?"

I blinked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Of course. What else? Did you think I bought you just to look pretty?"

The air went still.

In that moment, I clearly heard the low growl that had been rumbling in his throat all day cut off, as if he had choked on it.

That's right. I bought this top-tier, brawny werewolf to scrub my cauldron and do my chores.

The inspiration came from a fellow witch I met at the wizarding market.

She was bragging about her new half-orc slave, claiming he could lick the floors so clean you could see your reflection in them and even served as her personal foot warmer in the winter.

While the other witches burst out laughing and treated it as a joke, I was the only one who zeroed in on two key words: labor and warmth.

As a poor witch who spent all her time buried in potion-making, my apartment was damp, cold, and so messy it looked like it had been hit by a tornado.

So, Bruce was, quite simply, a gift from the heavens.

Over the next week, Bruce proved that every penny I'd spent was worth it.

He demonstrated astonishing efficiency, channeling all that ferocious energy into tackling years of built-up grime.

Just look at those muscles, that powerful build. Who else could lift a half-ton cauldron with one hand?

But beyond that, I soon discovered an even better use for him.

A werewolf's naturally high body temperature made him a walking furnace, far superior to any foot warmer.

To save money for the best herbs, I rented the cheapest basement apartment.

My workshop was constantly drafty, and my fingers would often grow stiff with cold as I brewed my potions.

The attentive Bruce quickly noticed this.

So, the next time I was wrapped in two blankets, sniffling as I reached for a dropper, he asked in a low voice from behind me, "Cold?"

Before I could turn around, a wall of scorching heat pressed against me. Bruce had pulled up a chair and sat down right behind me, his chest flush against my back.

If I leaned back just slightly, I would sink into that broad, hard, and searing-hot chest.

Through the thin fabric of my clothes, he was an endless source of heat, like the blazing sun.

It felt so good. I closed my eyes in contentment, my whole body instinctively relaxing into him until I was completely nestled in his embrace.

There was just one thing I couldn't figure out. Whenever I leaned against him, Bruce's body would go rigid as a board.

Then, that familiar low growl would start up again, louder and more urgent than ever.

Not only that, but his body temperature would spike, getting so hot I felt like he could set my clothes on fire.

This went on for several days.

Now, however, Bruce was lying on the floor by my bed, his eyes a solid, burning gold, staring at me without blinking.

His ears were drooping, and his big, fluffy tail was sweeping restlessly across the floor with a soft, swishing sound.

He looked utterly pathetic, like a big dog abandoned by its owner in the rain.

My heart clenched.

I reached out to touch his forehead. It was scorching, like red-hot charcoal, and slick with sweat.

This was bad. The poor wolf had definitely burned himself out keeping me warm.

A deep sense of guilt washed over me.

To make up for it, I patted the mattress beside me, my voice softening with concern.

"Bruce, don't sleep on the floor. Come up here."

Bruce's head shot up. "On the bed?"

"Yes, the bed." I took his burning hand, my heart aching for him. "You got sick because of me. From now on, you can sleep next to me."

"Even though I'm your master, you don't have to be so timid around me."

Hearing this, Bruce didn't hesitate. He vaulted onto the bed in one fluid motion.

His large frame instantly took up almost all the space on my small single bed.

Watching that impossibly handsome face sink into the soft pillow, his Adam's apple bobbing with his fevered breaths, I felt even more guilty.

"Get some rest. Don't think about anything."

"Cici..." he called my name, his voice raspy.

He turned onto his side. His dark eyes were tinged with an aggression that zeroed in on my mouth.

But I, the clueless witch, was too consumed by his apparent weakness and my own guilt to notice.

To soothe this loyal, silly wolf, I leaned down and gently kissed his burning forehead.

"There, there. Go to sleep."

That kiss was a huge mistake.

Bruce's whole body trembled violently. A tormented whimper broke from his throat as his arms shot up to grab me.

With lightning speed, I snatched a heavy wool blanket, cast a cooling charm, and even added a powerful tranquilizing spell.

As if I were wrapping a giant burrito, I bundled him up completely, tucking in his outstretched hands and restless tail until he was swaddled tight.

He tried to struggle, but the enchanted blanket was as solid as a rock.

Looking at Bruce, now wrapped up like a cocoon with only his head sticking out, I nodded in satisfaction.

"Cici..." He looked at me, a hint of misery in his eyes.

I patted his tightly wrapped chest, satisfied.

"Be good. A high fever requires physical cooling."

"Don't move, and don't you dare kick off the blanket. You're staying in there tonight until your fever breaks."

Bruce closed his eyes in utter despair.

But I swear, in the split second before he did, I thought I heard him grind out a single, furious word through clenched teeth:

"Dammit."