We crossed the marble. Past couples in whispered conversations. Past investors and executives and old bloodlines built on sharper sins. Every step I took, I felt the weight of the collar under the diamonds.
The rough edge of the chain hidden by silk. Every breath I drew felt borrowed. Every glance brushed against me like a blow. I didn’t falter. Because shame wasn’t weakness anymore. It was obedience. And obedience was survival.
Royal leaned down once—lips brushing the shell of my ear without touching. “Smile, sweetheart,” he murmured. “They like it better when you pretend you want it.”
My cheeks burned. But I didn’t smile. Because Wolfe hadn’t said to. Because Wolfe didn’t need me to pretend.
He already owned every breath. He didn’t need me to look like I loved it. Only to stay silent while it consumed me.
The ballroom pulsed around me. Laughter. Champagne. A hundred conversations stitched into the golden air. I stayed behind Wolfe. Eyes down. Hands at my sides. Steps measured. The collar sat heavy at my throat. Hidden under diamonds.
But I felt it. Every time I swallowed. Every time I breathed. The leash tightening. The silk whispering across bruised skin.
We moved through the crowd. Shadows parted for Wolfe. Bent themselves to the gravity he wore like a second skin. But they didn’t part for me. They noticed me. They stared. Whispers drifted in low currents.
Soft.
Sharp.
“Looks young.”
“New toy?”
“No ring.”
The words slipped over my skin like knives drawn slow. I didn’t lift my head. Didn’t breathe too deeply. Just counted my steps. One. Two. Three. Each one a prayer for stillness.
Royal lingered behind me. A step too close. Close enough that when I stumbled once—just a hitch of breath against the pain in my ribs—his hand brushed the small of my back.
Not to steady me.
Not to help.
Just to remind me.
“Careful,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. “Pets don’t stumble. It makes us look cheap.”
Heat scorched the back of my neck. Not from his words. From the shame. Because he was right. I wasn’t supposed to stumble. I wasn’t supposed to bleed.
I was supposed to survive beautifully.
Silently.
Obediently.
His.
A server passed. Champagne flutes gleaming under the chandeliers. Wolfe took one. Didn’t drink. Just held it like a king surveying a kingdom he didn’t trust.
Royal took two. Handed one to Loyal with a smirk. “Drink up,” he said lazily. “Might be the last party we get to enjoy.”
Loyal didn’t respond. He took the glass. Sipped. Didn’t look at me. But I felt him. Felt the weight of his gaze dragging over the bruises hidden under silk. Felt the breath he dragged slow through his nose, like it cost him.
Another whisper floated past.
Closer.
Cruler.
