My tone is mild, free of malice or affection; there’s just expectation. “Eat.”
She hesitates. The tension is exquisite: a fractional tightening of her jaw, the slow exhale through her nose. She resists as if the food itself were poison. I wait, steady, letting the moment stretch until she can’t stand it any longer.
At last, she leans forward and takes the bite from the fork, her lips brushing cool metal. Her gaze never leaves mine.
I watch her swallow, savoring the way she forces the motion past a clenched throat. The act is simple, but the intimacy of it crackles between us. I lean closer, just enough thatmy breath warms the side of her cheek, and murmur, “Good.” Not praise—ownership.
She sits back, wiping her mouth with the edge of her sleeve, refusing to touch the napkin. Fury glitters in her eyes, and I welcome it. The fire matters more than obedience. Fear is easy; willpower, rare.
The rest of the evening unfolds like a hunt, my movements always deliberate, always precise. When I pass behind her, I let my sleeve brush her shoulder—barely a touch, but enough to remind her I am never far.
When I speak, my voice drops, threading promises and threats in equal measure. I speak of old debts, of loyalty, of the consequences of betrayal. Each word lands with weight, but I do not strike. I don’t have to.
She responds in kind. Glares like daggers, voice low, sarcasm sharpened to a scalpel. “You always eat with your prisoners?” she asks, tone ice-cold.
“Only the ones who interest me,” I reply, pausing beside her chair. My gaze slides over her, slow and hungry. “Most would be locked away, forgotten. But you… you’re different.”
She scoffs, turning her face away, refusing to flinch. The line of her jaw, stubborn and proud, calls to something deep in me.
Later, I pour wine, deep red, rich and fragrant. I hand her a glass, fingers brushing hers. She holds it steady, refusing to let me see her shake. I toast to nothing, and she raises her glass out of habit, a gesture both defiant and resigned. I watch her take a sip, tongue darting to taste, eyes never leaving mine.
She thinks it’s another test, and she’s right.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask quietly, voice a ribbon in the candlelit dark.
She meets my gaze, chin raised. “Because you’re a control freak with too much time and not enough conscience.”
I almost laugh. “Because you’re dangerous, and because you’re clever. You’re mine.” I let the last word hang, heavy and final.
She sets her glass down a little too hard. “You don’t own me.”
The denial is desperate, raw. I savor it.
“Ownership isn’t a choice,” I say. “It’s recognition. You belong to me because I decided you would.”
Her eyes flash, rage and fear flickering in equal measure. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.” I lean closer, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a hush. “But you’re still here.”
The silence between us grows electric, thick with words unsaid. I let it stretch, never breaking eye contact. I want her attuned to every nuance; the curl of my mouth, the flick of my gaze, the way every gesture is calculated to remind her she’s not free.
The meal drags on, time measured by small sips and wary glances. I draw her out with questions, pressing her to talk about her work, her friends, her life before me. She offers sarcasm as a shield, but I catch the truths that slip through. I see her when she thinks she’s hidden.
She’s alive in her fury, the edge of her fear making her words sharp and bright. That, more than anything, confirms my victory. I don’t want her broken. I want her wild, tamed only by the walls I build around her.
After the meal, I let her rise. I watch the way she stands, slow and stiff, as if testing for injury. She holds herself tall, gaze wary, daring me to touch her. I don’t. Not yet. My hand lingersat her elbow, guiding her from the table with a gentleness that is more threat than kindness.
At the door, I pause, close enough that she can feel my presence at her back.
“You’ll eat with me again tomorrow,” I say. “You’ll do as I say. The sooner you accept this, the easier it will be.”
She doesn’t reply, but her glare is answer enough.
I smile, savoring the tension, the slow, deliberate hunt that is taming Seraphina Hale. She thinks I’m toying with her, and she’s right. She’ll learn soon enough that the game was never hers to begin with.
Control, after all, isn’t about breaking the will. It’s about binding it so tightly to mine that she cannot tell where her choices end and mine begin.
Her anger is exquisite, almost artful. The words she hurls are meant as daggers: “Monster,” she mutters, “you think this makes you strong? It only proves how weak you really are.”
