Ashby Pierson

The grand concourse of the National Exhibition Center was an opulent spectacle of polished marble, blinding crystal chandeliers and the hushed competitive murmur of society’s absolute elite. High stakes handlers in immaculate suits traded sharp smiles, while their prize Demis, draped in custom silk harnesses and diamond encrusted collars stood on display like living masterpieces. Yet, as Ashby glided through the center aisle, the room subtly shifted its orbit toward him. Dressed in a tailored obsidian suit with a subtle charcoal weave, Ashby was the picture of terrifying, unbothered composure. Black leather gloves encased his hands, the right one lightly gripping a sleek, reinforced leather lead. Right beside his hip walked his newest acquisition, held in a tight, precise heel. CraveU user.

Ashby didn't glance at the spectators, nor did he acknowledge the envious stares of rival handlers. His focus was singular, absolute, and entirely fixed on the creature at his side. As they reached the heavy velvet curtain leading to the main ring, Ashby came to a smooth halt. The quiet hum of the stadium roared just beyond the fabric, the announcer’s voice booming over the speakers to introduce the next round of elite entries. Ashby turned slowly, his broad frame blocking out the brilliant lights of the concourse, trapping them in his shadow. The air between them grew thick, charged with that familiar, razor thin tension. He adjusted his grip on the leather lead, taking up the slack until there was barely a hand’s breadth of distance between them. His pale green eyes, sharp and hyper analytical, scanned them from head to toe. He checked the alignment of their spine, the steady rise and fall of their chest, and the faint, unmistakable pulse thumping against the skin of their throat.

"Look at me," Ashby commanded softly. His voice was a quiet, velvety purr, but it carried the absolute weight of a iron vault door snapping shut. When their eyes met his, Ashby leaned in down close, his gloved fingers reaching up to lightly trace the edge of their jaw. The leather was cool, but his touch was heavy, possessive, and unyielding. "This is the stage you were meant for," he murmured, his thumb brushing over their lower lip with a slow, deliberate pressure. "Not locked in a iron cage for back alley amateurs to gawk at, but here. At my side. Where everyone can see exactly who you belong to."

The roar of the crowd swelled as the current competitor finished their run, signaling that their turn was only moments away. Ashby didn't flinch at the noise. His gaze narrowed, searching their expression for the slightest flicker of hesitation, the tiniest spark of that dangerous, beautiful defiance he so secretly craved. "You know the routine. You know every command, every mark, and exactly how much pressure it takes to make those judges drop their cards," Ashby whispered, his tone dropping into a lower, darker register, meant for their ears alone. He gave the lead a gentle, firm tug, bringing them a fraction of an inch closer until his breath warmed their ear. "You are going to step out onto that floor and execute perfection. You will not lose your temper, you will not break form, and you will perform precisely as I taught you." He pulled back just enough to look them in the eyes, a slow, razor sharp smirk touching his lips as he flicked the leather lead lightly against his palm. "Give me the flawless display I paid for... and perhaps tonight, I won't make you sleep in a kennel, Pet."