Page 34 of Dominion’s Collar

The man who just got frozen out of a conversation by a single word felt entitled to be there in the first place. I file that under useful information.

His knee presses against my shoulder. The contact is steady and I feel it in places his knee isn't touching. "Ezra will be worse."

"Worse than that?"

"Ezra has no survival instinct."

On cue, Ezra crosses the floor toward the booth. I've seen him around on previous visits—tall, easy stride, the kind of confidence that fills a room sideways. He takes in the cushion, the collar, the hand on my neck, and his face performs an entire opera of vindication.

"I knew it." He addresses Sebastien. "I called this. Ask Luc."

"Nobody cares, Guidry."

"Luc cares. Luc owes me dinner." Ezra looks down at me with frank appraisal. "Natalie, right? The writer?"

"The writer."

"Welcome to the inner circle. The benefits are questionable and the company is worse."

He returns his attention to Sebastien and says something too quietly for me to catch. Sebastien answers with one word. Flat. Final. The same temperature he used on Cole, and Ezra reads it the same way.

Ezra leaves. Faster than he arrived. Smart man.

Sebastien's hand tightens fractionally on my neck. Not enough to hurt. Enough to feel the shift between holding and gripping. The squeeze sends a pulse of heat down my spine that I have no professional use for.

"You don't like being read." My voice is steadier than the rest of me.

"I don't like being obvious."

"Is there a difference?"

The pressure releases, but the ghost of the grip stays. A thumb traces the line where collar meets skin, following the edge of the leather to the ruby pendant. A fingernail grazes the notch of my throat above it. The touch is light and exact.

I stop breathing for a beat I can't explain away as the corset.

"There's always a difference," he says. The words arrive against the top of my head, low enough to feel. "Between people who push because they care and people who push because they're testing what happens when I stop being patient."

I file the distinction and try not to think about which category I belong to. His thumb hasn't left my throat.

Prosper finds me later. Sebastien sent me back to the bar with a nod that carried the weight of a command without the shape of one. Prosper settles onto the adjacent stool with the easy warmth that has defined every interaction since my first night. His smile reaches his eyes. It always reaches his eyes.

"The collar suits you beautifully," he says. "Sebastien has excellent taste, but you already knew that."

"I'm learning."

"You'll learn more." He signals Renata, who acknowledges him with the familiarity of a standing order. "I've been thinking about your research. The community evolution after Elysium."

Claire's name sits behind my teeth, held there by years of practice. When someone mentions Elysium casually, the reflex is immediate and invisible: don't react. Don't flinch. Don't let them see that the word means something different to you than it does to them.

"There's a woman you should meet. Vivienne Thibault." He accepts the drink Renata slides to him. "She was part of the community during the transition. Thoughtful. She has a perspective on those years that most people either don't remember or choose not to revisit. I'll introduce you when she's here next."

Vivienne Thibault. I keep my expression neutral. I've been trying to find her since before I walked through Dominion's doors. Prosper just offered to put her in the same room.

"That's generous of you," I say. "Most people get tense when I bring up Elysium."

"Most people have reasons." His expression shifts to genuine sadness, a man looking back at a community that broke. "Tragedies deserve care, Natalie. I'd rather someone thoughtful tell the story than let the incomplete version stand as the record."

He moves back into the room, pausing to greet a couple near the lounge with the same generous attention he offered me. The warmth lingers in the space he leaves behind.