My show-quality service beastkin doesn't like me. He only wags his tail for my sister.

I then bring home a low-grade venting beastkin.

But he's now so upset that he's nearly in tears.

"Layla Manfred, there can only be one hound, and that's me!"

I, Layla Manfred, was drunk. I was now sitting outside the bar, smoking to sober up.

A street vendor approached me timidly and murmured, "You look stressed, miss. Do you need to blow off some steam? I've got a venting beastkin who can help you unwind."

I waved a hand to dispel the smoke. "What?"

The vendor glanced warily left and right, confirming no one was watching, before gesturing for the beastkin to approach.

This was a wolfhound beastkin. He was tall and slender, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist.

When he stood, he blocked out the bar lights, which cast a shadow over me.

Before I could react, the vendor yanked the crude collar around his neck, forcing him to his knees before removing the rusty muzzle.

The vendor yanked his hair, forcing him to look up as his face was revealed. The beastkin had pale skin, a high nose, and his thin lips were pursed tightly together. Bruises marred his brow and the corners of his mouth. His narrowed eyes were locked onto me like those of a wild beast.

The vendor smacked his face hard a few times. "Look here, miss. Doesn't his face look satisfying to hit?"

I swallowed hard, feeling a flicker of interest. He was my type. Plus, my doctor said my hormones were out of balance, and I needed a way to relieve the stress.

However, I already had a wolfhound at home. Salem Tarr would definitely have taken issue with it.

Sensing my hesitation, the vendor kicked the beastkin. "Get up and show the lady your muscles."

The beastkin rose to his feet slowly. Chains bound his body, and he could only remove his black T-shirt with one hand, instantly revealing his lean, pale muscles. However, his skin was covered in bruises and scars.

The vendor quickly reapplied the muzzle, patting the beastkin's powerful arm muscles. "Look at him, miss. He's got amazing stamina and recovery abilities. You can vent for two hours for a mere 2000 dollars. As long as you don't slit his throat and bleed him out, he'll recover."

I was shocked. "Slit his throat and bleed him?"

Were people really this twisted these days? How terrifying.

Forget it. The one I had back home didn't let me touch him anyway. Since this one was cheap, I could very well just buy an obedient one.

I stood up in a daze, slurring slightly as I asked, "How much if I buy him?"

"Ha! It won't be cheap." The vendor rubbed his hands. "He's the best we've got around here."

"Name your price."

"A lucky sum, then. 5888 dollars."

I was stunned.

My own service wolfhound, Salem, cost my parents a few million. This one was surprisingly cheap.

"Too pricey?" asked the vendor.

"Round it down then. 5800 dollars," I replied.

In the end, I paid 5800 dollars for Clayton Yarrow.

…

I didn't feel like going home, so I brought him to stay at a hotel.

Before leaving, the vendor gave me countless instructions. Under no circumstances was I to remove his muzzle before he was fully trained, and it was best not to remove his leash either.

In the hotel suite, Clayton stood motionless at the entrance, his eyes downcast. He was like a silent statue awaiting his destiny.

After my shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, not daring to remove his shackles. "You should shower too."

He stared at me for a few seconds before walking into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the air.

A few minutes later, I knocked on the door. "I left my phone inside."

Clayton hadn't locked the door, so it just opened.

Clayton froze, his back to me. His tall, imposing figure was completely naked. His skin was pale, making his wounds look even more gruesome.

Water flowed over the rusty chains, black grime mixing with bloodstains from his forearms, trickling down his back and abdomen. The water slid down his calves and trickled into the drain.

His tail drooped, trembling slightly.

Unlike Salem's hair, which was smooth and shiny, Clayton's was dry and dull. It looked both fragile and wild.

Immediately, I was overcome by desire.

I moved closer and embraced him from behind, gently kissing the bruises on his back.

Clayton shuddered and stiffened. "What are you doing?"

This was the first time I'd heard Clayton's voice. It was deep, husky, and magnetic.

"Venting," I replied.

His hands hung by his sides as he clenched his fists. "No…"

"Hmm?"

He let out a few muffled grunts. "That's not how you vent."

"I have no experience, so just bear with it," I replied.

I pushed him down onto the bed, gently kissing every bit of his wounds.

Clayton was still muzzled, his hands and feet bound by shackles. He let me do as I pleased.

His body remained tense, as if he didn't know how to react. At the crucial moment, he suddenly reached out and gripped my waist. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

He looked at me, his voice even hoarser as he replied, "I'm just a lowly beastkin."

My only response was my eager movements.

He groaned softly and closed his eyes, his long lashes fluttering slightly.

…

Early that morning, the sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming my skin with soft, gentle rays.

My cheek was pressed against Clayton's taut muscles as I pulled my phone from under the pillow.

My friend, Helen Watkins, had sent me a text.

"Where are you? Did my weird little shut-in sneak home again?"

I replied," No. I bought a new venting beastkin yesterday. I was busy venting."

Lisa replied with a "?" before sending me a whole barrage of texts.

"Layla, how could you do this?"

"I know your beastkin isn't unruly, and you're upset, but you can't just get a venting beastkin and take it out on them!"

"You wouldn't hit your show-quality hound, but you'd take it out on a venting hound?"

"I'd have called the cops on you if you weren't my friend. I must've really misjudged you!"

I was stunned by her scolding and texted, "But I didn't hit him! How could I possibly hit my dog?"

Lisa paused briefly before replying, "Then how did you vent?"

I texted, "Well. I… vented the way you think."

We fell silent.

Venting beastkin were part of an illegal industry, usually involving kidnapping young beastkin or buying low-grade beastkin at low prices.

They were then put through a brutal selection process to single out the beastkin with strong bodies and rapid healing abilities to be selected as venting beastkin. Those who passed end up as human punching bags.

Venting beastkin were used for torture, beatings, and stress relief. Some were forced into underground arenas for gladiator-style duels. These beastkin, though pitiful, were widely regarded as wild and untamable.

Those rescued by official organizations could be adopted for free, while unclaimed beastkin were disposed of humanely.

"If you're regretting it, I know where he lives," came a deep voice from behind me.

I gasped, frantically dimming my phone screen before turning to meet Clayton's dull eyes. He lowered his gaze, avoiding my eyes.

"But he's part of an organization, so he probably won't be willing to give you your money back. While he's alone, I might be able to—"

"I don't," I replied, cutting him off. "As long as you do as I say, and follow only my instructions."

Clayton hummed softly in response. His expression remained unchanged, and only his ears twitched. Several faint scars marked his furry ears.

I couldn't resist reaching out to touch his beast ears.

His ears immediately perked up in alertness, then flopped back in retreat.

I withdrew, feeling a bit disappointed. Why was he unwilling to let me pet him, too?

"Sorry, I'm just used to it." He tried to relax his ears slowly, tilting his head slightly downward. "You can touch them now."

"If you still want to," he added.

I didn't hold back.

I rolled over and straddled his waist, my hands bracing against his chest as I ruffled his ears freely.

Clayton had such soft, warm ears, his fur a silvery white.

Clayton's breathing grew heavier, his body burning up with each second. He tilted his head slightly back, his narrowed eyes reddening at the corners as he stared intently at me.

I swallowed hard before asking, "Can we vent again?"

…

After leaving the hotel, I didn't go straight home. Instead, I took Clayton to the beastkin clinic.

The doctor said he was healing well and that the bruises and scars on his body were nothing to worry about.

He was just severely malnourished and needed to take various special supplements long-term.

The total cost of all the supplements was already higher than his net worth.

"I don't need it." Clayton clasped my hand tightly. "I can eat anything. There's no need to spend money on me. I won't die."

This amount of money was nothing more than Salem's monthly snack budget.

"It's fine." I ruffled Clayton's head and held out the newly selected collar and muzzle. "Do you like them?"

It was a slender black metal collar paired with a custom-made black muzzle.

I'd initially decided not to have Clayton wear such things anymore, but the doctor insisted on it.

"Don't be fooled by the wild beastkin's appearance. He could bite your neck off in one bite," he had said.

I could only try my best to choose something comfortable.

While removing his old muzzle, the doctor asked Clayton, "Were you a venting beastkin or a gladiator?"

Clayton lowered his head further, his voice muffled. "I was both."

"I see." The doctor handed me the old muzzle to examine. "Look at these teeth marks. He must have bitten down when the pain became unbearable."

Clayton paused. "That's from last night."

I froze.

"In the arena?" the doctor asked.

"No," Clayton said before glancing at my retreating figure. "That happened while venting."

…

I got home at dawn. My parents had long since fallen asleep.

Salem was most likely sleeping in my sister's room.

The cold, incandescent light in the entryway was the only thing greeting me.

"Come in." I kicked off my high heels and turned to look at Clayton.

The cold light swept across his high, prominent brow, settling on his angular features. He didn't move, his gaze fixed on the discarded collar on the floor.

I picked it up. "This is Salem's."

Salem was the service beastkin my parents gave me to compensate me for losing me for 18 years.

My parents lost me at five and were only reunited with me when I was 23.

Upon my return, I discovered that my parents had long ago adopted a little girl from the orphanage. Her name was Lisa Manfred. My parents had adopted her since infancy, and she was now 17.

Lisa reacted very poorly to my return. She couldn't accept that she was adopted.

She hurled everything within reach at me, wailing and screaming hysterically. "Get out! I'm their daughter! Why are you trying to take them from me? This is my house, you filthy beggar! Get out!"

My mother, Anna Larson, rushed over to embrace her, murmuring gentle words of comfort. "Don't cry, you'll always be our daughter. Just because your sister's back doesn't mean we don't love you anymore. We'll love you as much as we did. We'll love you both."

My father, John Manfred, stood protectively before me with a resigned look. "Lisa's been spoiled rotten by your mother, and now she has a real princess complex. Since you're six years older, do try to be more patient with her later on."

I should've been heartbroken, but I was already 23. I had already moved past the age of craving my parents' affection. By then, I had entered the age of liking wealth even more.

I lowered my gaze, tears of hurt trailing down my cheeks. "I understand, Dad."

Showing vulnerability had its uses after all. Now, the monthly allowance I received kept increasing.

During the first birthday celebration at my new home, my parents gifted me Salem, a show-quality service wolfhound.

"You're too shy," my parents said. "We're giving you a puppy so you can be more lively and cheerful."

At the time, Salem was just a puppy that hadn't shapeshifted.

This made Lisa cry buckets. "Why does only Lisa get one? You promised not to play favorites! He's mine!"

She scooped up Salem and vanished after dashing outside. My birthday party was ruined, and I no longer had a present.

Mom and Dad were at their wits' end, weeping every day.

I wept too. "It's my fault, Mom and Dad. I'm sorry. I pushed her away."

It wasn't until one afternoon over ten days later that Lisa and Salem reappeared at the front door, covered in dust and dirt. "Mom and Dad, I'm so hungry. I'm sorry, I won't run away again."

Mom and Dad rushed forward to hug Lisa, and all three of them wept uncontrollably.