Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing against my hair. "Good morning,cara," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and a deeply unsettling tenderness.
I don't respond. I can't. The words are trapped in my throat, choked by a wall of unshed tears.
He doesn't press for an answer. He simply lies there with me for a long moment before he shifts, preparing to get up. "I'll have breakfast brought here. You need to eat. And then I will change the dressing."
He slides out of bed, and the loss of his warmth is immediate and jarring, leaving my skin cold and tingling. I hear him moving around the room, the quiet sounds of him dressing. He is treating this like any other morning, as if he didn't permanently scar me just hours ago. The casual domesticity of it is more insane than the act itself.
He returns to the bedside and looks down at me. "Do you need help?"
The question hangs in the air. He means the bathroom. My face burns with a humiliation so intense it momentarily eclipses the pain. I am wounded. I can barely move without a fresh wave of agony. I am dependent on him for the most basic functions. It is the final, most degrading chain.
I give a short, jerky shake of my head. 'No.'
"Don't lie to me, Wynter," he says, his voice losing its softness, replaced by a firm command. "There will be no more lies between us."
He doesn't wait for my consent. He gently pulls back the covers, his eyes immediately going to the bandage on my hip. A flicker of something—pride, satisfaction—crosses his face before he schools his features. He scoops me up into his arms with an ease that is terrifying. I am weightless to him. I am his to move, to position, to control.
He carries me into the bathroom and sets me gently on my feet, his hands holding me steady as my legs tremble. He helps me with my clothes, his touch impersonal and efficient, like a nurse tending to a patient. But he is not a nurse. He is theone who inflicted the wound. Every touch is a reminder, a fresh violation. I stare blankly at the marble wall, disassociating, my mind floating away to a place where none of this is happening.
Afterward, he helps me back to the bed. A breakfast tray is already there. He props pillows behind me, forcing me into a sitting position. "Eat," he commands.
I look at the food. It’s a feast, as always. But the thought of swallowing anything makes my stomach churn. I shake my head again.
"Wynter." His voice is a low warning. "Do not make me force you. Your body needs fuel to heal the wound I gave you. You will eat."
The logic is so twisted, so circular, I can’t fight it. I pick up a piece of toast, my hands shaking, and force myself to take a bite. It tastes like cardboard. I eat because he commands it. I chew and swallow, my eyes fixed on a point on the wall, my spirit a hollowed-out cavern.
When I am finished, he clears the tray. "Time to change the dressing."
He returns with the first-aid kit. He sits on the bed and gently, inexorably, peels back the bandage. I can’t help but look.
It is worse than I imagined. The skin is red and inflamed, and etched into the center of the angry flesh is a perfect, black-scabbed 'K'. It is neat, precise, and undeniably his. It is a part of me now. Seeing it, seeing his initial branded on my body, is like being stabbed all over again. A low, wounded sound escapes my throat.
"It will heal," he says, his voice soft as he dabs at the wound with antiseptic. I flinch, a sharp hiss of pain escaping my lips. "The scar will be a fine, silver line. It will be beautiful. A permanent piece of art."
He finishes dressing the wound, his touch lingering for a moment on the clean bandage. He looks up and meets my eyes.
"This is the new reality, Wynter," he says, his voice devoid of malice, a simple statement of fact. "You are mine. You will live in my home, sleep in my bed, and bear my mark. In return, you will have my protection, my devotion, and anything you desire. There is nowhere on this earth you can run where I will not find you. The choice to fight is gone. Your only choice now is what kind of life you wish to have with me."
He stands and walks to the closet, pulling out a soft, silk robe. He holds it open for me.
"Come," he says. "There is something I want you to see."
He helps me into the robe, his hands guiding my arms, his fingers brushing against my skin. He lifts me again, and this time I don’t even have the energy to feel humiliated. I am simply an object being transported.
He carries me to his office. The dark, masculine room feels like the heart of his power. He sets me down in the large leather chair behind his desk—his throne.
He walks to the wall opposite the desk, to the spot that had been empty. It is not empty anymore.
My portrait of him hangs there, encased in a severe, elegant black frame. It is perfectly lit, the centerpiece of the entire room. From this vantage point, sitting in his chair, it is the first thing one sees. It is a statement.
"The artist, and her king," he says, his voice soft but filled with a deep, resonant pride. He walks back to me, leaning down, his hands on the arms of the chair, caging me in.
"You captured my soul on that canvas," he whispers, his gaze intense. He reaches out and gently traces the line of the robe over my hip, directly above his mark. "So I put my soul on you."
I stare at the portrait. The man on the canvas, the monster of my creation, stares back at me. Then I look at the man in front of me. They are one and the same. He has taken my anger and hungit on his wall like a trophy. He has taken my body and signed it like a piece of art.
He owns my rage. He owns my pain. He owns me.
