The morning looked like any other. Except this time, his door was open. Wide. Unlocked. Uninviting to anyone but me.
I walked in barefoot, my robe still clinging damp to my skin, and claimed the side of the bed that had always belonged to me in secret. No more pretending I was a guest or a charge or a task. I lived here now.
Not as his ward. Not as his assignment. As his.
By eight, I was in the kitchen. Ivory silk robe, nothing beneath, the one he’d laid out without a word. My hair was wet. My lips bare. He didn’t look up right away, just turned a page in his paper. Then his eyes flicked toward me.
I dropped to my knees beside his chair without being told.
His hand landed lightly on my head, fingers stroking through my damp hair once. A reward. My chest tightened.
“You’ll paint from nine to noon,” he said calmly. “Then drills with Ben in the east garden. You’ll wear the gray set I laid out.”
“Yes, sir.”
He reached down, brushed my cheekbone with his knuckles.
“You speak only when permitted today. Understood?”
I nodded.
His gaze held mine a second longer, then moved back to his breakfast. I didn’t thank him. That would’ve broken the spell.
Lunch passed in silence. A timer told me when I could get up. After, I sat curled on the floor of the sunroom in the pale light, sketching in charcoal the first thing that came to mind: a collar resting at the hollow of a woman’s throat. The next drawing came quickly—two hands tied with silk.
Then another. A girl kneeling, face blank, spine proud. Quiet devotion. Surrender. Him.
Ben, the guy that works for Vincent, didn’t ask questions during drills. But when I missed a block and hit the mat too hard, he winced. I didn’t. I got up. Vincent watched from the terrace, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He didn’t intervene. His presence alone kept me upright.
At five, I was permitted to shower. At six, I was summoned.
His study was lit only by candlelight. The scent of leather, amber, control. I stepped inside and sank to my knees at the foot of his chair.
He didn’t speak for a while. Just looked at me. Then reached for the tray beside him.
“Open.”
My lips parted.
He held a square of dark chocolate between his fingers, letting it rest on my tongue. I didn’t touch him. Just closed my mouth around the taste. Let it melt.
He waited until I swallowed.
“You obey beautifully now.”
Those words sent heat spiraling through my chest. I didn’t smile. But my whole body burned.
“I used to think I needed to break you,” he murmured, lifting another piece. “But you weren’t wild. You were unclaimed.”
My breath caught.
“You agreed to this,” he said. “Full exchange. No revocation unless safety is breached.”
Is he trying to gaslight me?
“You wear what I choose. Speak when permitted. Sleep in my bed. Accept my collar. Give me everything.”
Another nod. My pulse raced beneath my robe.
His fingers brushed my jaw.
“You give it so well,” he said. “Because you trust me.”
A sound nearly escaped my throat—something between a sob and a gasp—but I swallowed it. Held still.
Tonight, kneeling at his feet in the quiet glow of his world, I felt it again. The difference. I wasn’t a pet. I wasn’t a possession. I was a woman who had chosen this. Who wanted the weight of his gaze, his rules, his voice, more than the illusion of freedom.
Vincent stood.
I rose without needing to be told.
At the bedroom door, he turned. His hand came up slowly, brushed my hair over my shoulder. I tipped my chin without prompting.
The collar clicked open. Then locked again around my throat. Final. Whole.
His fingers didn’t drop.
He leaned close, breath warm against my ear.
“Mine,” he whispered.