The sight of the slave was breathtaking. Samandriel's body was pale and smooth, firm and lithe. His body almost glowed with youth and health. It was a body that had never known hunger or cold; never been wounded in battle or scarred by the lash. He wondered for a moment what his own body would have looked like at that age, after he he had already spent more than a decade under the harsh tutelage of his Spartan vampire masters. It would have been hard and spare, scarred and dangerous - corded with whiplike muscle and bronzed by the Mediterranean sun. Not like this beautiful, soft-skinned ivory boy before him.
Carrick stepped forwards slowly, drinking in the sight. Samandriel was beautiful... and for 24 hours, Samandriel was going to belong completely to him.
"This Mitchell can't possibly know what fortune has given him," he said quietly. He reached out and ran his fingertips lightly up Samandriel's stomach and chect to cup his face.