Another hunt?
"Easy," Damon's voice rumbles, low and commanding, but there's no gentleness in it. His grip tightens on my upper arm as he hauls meout, my bare feet hitting the cold floor, knees buckling slightly from days of immobility. I gasp, surprise twisting into recognition, my eyes darting to Hunter's shadowed form nearby, his gaze fixed on me with that unyielding intensity. He doesn't speak, just stands there like a sentinel, ready to enforce whatever comes next.
Graves hovers a few steps away, his presence as composed as ever, but his eyes hold a flicker of something–regret? Pity? He's positioned by a small table, the one where my husband eats his breakfast, a silver tray laid out precisely, glinting under the soft lamp light. Two items catch my eye immediately: a syringe, its needle capped, filled with a clear liquid, and a small metal gun, compact and mechanical, more of a tool than a weapon. My stomach drops. I know what this is. Control. More of it.
"What—" I start, my voice hoarse, but Damon cuts me off with a shake of his head, his fingers digging in as he forces me toward the table. I twist instinctively, panic flaring, but Hunter is there in an instant, his hands clamping down on my shoulders from behind, holding me still. He's stronger than he looks, I know that now, his lean frame unyielding, and I feel the heat of his body against my back, a reminder of boundaries he's never crossed.
"Keep her still," Graves orders, his tone flat, businesslike. No room for argument. The King’s assistant steps forward, uncapping the syringe with efficiency, his expression neutral as if this is just another routine.
I buck against Hunter's grip, my breath coming in short bursts–I'm not going down without a fight, not after everything–but Damon's free hand grabs my chin, forcing my head up, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
"For fuck’s sake, hold still.” I try to squirm but they’ve got me locked tight. “This is for your own good, Arianette. No accidents. No complications. We can’t have you getting knocked up.”
Birth control. The realization hits like a slap. As if the cage and the collar weren’t enough, they’re marking me as property that needs managing. I snarl, trying to jerk away, but Hunter's arms lock tighter,one hand sliding to pin my wrists behind my back so hard that I whimper.
Graves approaches, the needle gleaming, and before I can protest, he swabs a spot on my upper arm with cool alcohol. “If you’re still it should only be a small prick. Like a bee sting,” he says, voice calm and soothing.
It doesn’t work, but he’s right, the sting is quick–the plunger depresses, the liquid burning as it enters my vein. I hiss through clenched teeth, muscles tensing, but it's over in seconds. Forced compliance, injected into my bloodstream.
I'm still reeling when Damon nods to Graves, who sets the syringe aside and picks up the metal gun. Hunter shifts his hold, one hand tangling in my hair to tilt my head sideways, exposing the skin behind my ear. My pulse races—tracker. I know what it is. I already had one clawed out of my skin once before.
"No," I whisper, voice breaking, but Damon's expression hardens, unmovable.
“It’s for your protection,” he says calmly, “and standard for any Baroness.”
I wiggle, remembering the bloody mess my neck was when they removed the one my uncle injected when I was so young I don’t even remember getting it. Even without the memory, I know it’s going to hurt.
"Stay still," Hunter murmurs, his breath warm against my neck–the first words he's spoken to me in what feels like forever. It's almost gentle, but his grip isn't. Graves presses the device to the spot just behind my earlobe, the cold metal sending a shiver down my spine. A click, a burst of pressure, and pain flares hot and bright, like a jolt rushing under my skin. I yelp, body jerking, but they hold me firm until it's done. A small chip, embedded, invisible, but eternal. Trackable. Owned.
They release me then, stepping back as if nothing happened. I slump against the table, hand flying to the tender spot, feeling the slightly raised bump under my skin. Tears prick my eyes, not from the pain, but from the humiliation, the finality. Damon watches mefor a moment, something unreadable in his gaze, before turning away.
"Back in the cage," he says quietly, and Hunter guides me there without a word, the door clanging shut behind me once more. Graves clears the tray and they leave me alone again, marked and medicated, the blooming bruise on my arm and the lingering pain in my neck the only proof confirming that this is not another nightmare.
2
Hunter
I enter the common room,Ares padding quietly beside me, nails clicking against the worn hardwood. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and damp fur–clean but lived-in. Damon’s at the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up, a black towel spread beneath a meticulous arrangement of piercing tools–forceps, clamps, needles, rings. He moves with intent, each motion steady and sure. The faint sound of metal clinking against glass slices through the quiet.
Ares circles once near the couch before lowering himself to the floor with a soft huff, his head resting on his paws. He’s doing better, though his energy dips fast. Our walks are short–just around the garden, enough to rebuild what he lost. I reach down to give his ear a quick scratch and he sighs, eyes already half-closed.
“Where have you been?” Damon’s voice cuts through the stillness.
I pause, caught mid-step, the words heavier than they should be. “Just checking on her.”
He doesn’t look up, a lock of his dark hair falling onto his forehead. He swirls his tools into a bowl of clear liquid, the metal glinting under the low light. “Did she know you were there? Did you announce yourself?” His tone is lazy, but there’s a bite beneath it. “Or were you creeping again?”
I exhale through my nose. “Why do you care?”
He shrugs, mouth curving into that familiar, mocking half-smile. “Just wondering when you’re going to stop watching and do something about it.”
I grunt–the only answer I can give. DK doesn’t get it. He assumes the distance is part of some kink, like an obsession with edging, and maybe on the surface, that’s true. But it’s more than that. He doesn’t know what happens when I let myself cross that line–when I touch, when I take. It never ends clean.
“What about you? Still avoiding her?”
“As long as I can,” he says without hesitation. “The farther she is from me, the better.”
“She’s still our Baroness. I don’t think you’re going to be able to stay away from her forever.”
