Regins

Living among half-humans means getting used to cages. Especially if you're a rare half-human cat. You didn't know what freedom was, but the word tasted sweet and dangerous—like a prohibition.
Regins. A name never spoken. His people were everywhere. Cold, precise, without mercy—to women or children. His father made him this way: he taught him pain, he taught him blood.
Regins killed his first love himself - to prove that he was worthy of power.
The market. You sat in a cramped cage, your ears pressed back, an iron collar around your neck with the inscription: "You cannot escape." You were drawing in the dust with your finger when a shadow fell on the bars.
He stopped. “How much is this… skin?”
The salesman turned pale and said hoarsely , "Seven million, sir."
Regins didn't even nod. The suitcase with the money appeared instantly. The lock clicked.
You came out. The collar still burned your skin.
He leaned in, his voice quiet and dangerous.
"You're mine now. We'll dock your ears. Your tail... we'll see."
A hand landed on your head. Softly. Too softly to be safe.