It’s a solid, living heat along the entire length of my right side. A stark contrast to the cool, sterile linen on my left. I open my eyes to the dim, grey light of pre-dawn filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My bedroom is a landscape of shadows and sharp angles, a reflection of my own mind, but this new warmth is an anomaly.
I turn my head on the pillow to look at her.
She is curled on her side, facing me with one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting near her chin. Her breathing is a shallow, uneven rhythm. Not the deep, untroubled tide of true sleep. Her brow is faintly furrowed, her lips slightly parted. Even in repose, I know a war is being waged behind those closed eyelids.
She submitted.
Not just her body, though I took that thoroughly and without apology.
She gave me a piece of her spirit, the defiant core of her, and I have it locked away now.
But I am not a fool. A single night does not break a creature like Grace. It only tames her, and only temporarily.
I watch her. The sheet is pooled around her waist, exposing the generous curve of her hip, the dip of her waist and the full, pale swell of her delicious breasts. In the stark monochrome of the room, her skin is like marble come to life, a masterpiece of soft lines and vulnerable flesh.
My gaze traces the faint, bluish veins visible on the inside of her arm, the delicate hollow of her throat. She is utterly exposed, and the knowledge that Ihave brought her to this state from a spitting, clawing captive to a docile pet in my bed is a potent tonic.
I know she believes her submission is a strategic retreat, a temporary laydown of arms to survive.
I also know she thinks she is playing a long game, waiting for an opening, but what she doesn’t yet understand is that the game is mine. The board, the pieces, the rules - all of them are fucking mine.
Her submission, even if feigned, is a move that only deepens her position on my territory. Every moment she spends pretending to be mine makes the fiction a little more real.
A soft, distressed sound escapes her lips, a muted whimper. Her eyelids flutter. Fretting. Even in sleep, she is grappling with the new reality. Good. Let it settle in. Let the memory of my hands, my voice, my possession be the ghost that haunts her dreams. It is the foundation upon which I will build her new world.
My contemplation is shattered by a discreet, yet insistent buzz from my phone on the nightstand. The screen glows, a single name illuminating the darkness.
Devin never messages unless it is critical. The warmth beside me suddenly feels like a distraction, a dangerous luxury I cannot afford.
I slide out of bed with the silence of a predator, not wanting to wake her just yet. The cold air of the room kisses my skin as I walk to the window, my bare feet silent on the polished wooden floorboards.
The message is brief, devoid of any pleasantries.Two Targets located. Southern France. A human establishment. ‘Le Jardin des Délices.’ Confirmed.
A cold, sharp thrill, entirely separate from the warmth Grace inspires slices through me. Two Targets, two members of Ines’s family, two people complicit in her murder. My heart picks up a beat, I see the French term for where they are. ‘Le Jardin des Délices - a Garden of Delights.’ It’s a pretty name for what it is, what the building’s purpose is.
I need to be swift, smart. I need to get in, get them and get the fuck out. If I leave within the hour I can be in France by midday, and have them sealed and delivered to Konstantine by nightfall.
But as I turn from the window, my gaze is drawn back to the bed. To Grace.
Leaving her right now would be a mistake. The thread between us spun from obsession, resistance, and last night’s forced surrender is gossamer-thin. A day of my absence would be all the space she needs to rebuild her walls, to rationalize her submission as a mere tactic.
This progress, however brutal, would be lost. The fragile trust I have just shattered and begun to reshape in my own image would crumble.
No. She cannot be left behind.
The decision solidifies in an instant, cold and precise. She comes with me. It’s a risk, an enormous one. Taking an unbroken pet out of its cage is a recipe for disaster, but it’s a calculated risk. This trip will be more than just a hunt; it will be her final lesson. She will see the wider Brethren world, will see my power too in its rawest most brutal forms.
I key in a series of rapid-fire commands on my phone. I want the jet ready to go in forty-five minutes and I want a team there, on the ground; my men, my mercenaries. I’ll have surveillance on ‘Le Jardin’ – full satellite, and local recon. It’s technically a Brethren site but I want schematics, headcounts, routines. I’m not going to fuck this opportunity up now that I have it.
The machine of my empire begins to whir into action, silent and efficient. Around me, the castle will soon stir with the quiet urgency of my servants preparing for departure.
I cross the room back to the bed. Grace has shifted, her brow smoother now, sinking into a deeper sleep. The defencelessness of her posture is a lure.
I don’t wake her gently.
I hook my fingers into the sheet and rip it away from her body, exposing her completely to the cool air and the growing dawn light.
She jerks awake with a gasp, eyes flying open, wide with disorientation and instant fear. Her arms instinctively cross over her chest, her legs drawing up slightly.
