Serena didn't sleep.
The bed was soft—obscenely so. The silk sheets kissed her skin. The pillows were embroidered with a gold crest she refused to acknowledge. But none of it mattered.
Because comfort in a cage was still a cage.
---
At dawn, a soft knock came at the door. Then another. Then a pause.
"Miss Vale," a voice called. "You are expected."
Of course she was.
She rose, her limbs stiff from staying curled around her thoughts all night. She didn't bother fixing her hair, though someone had left a silver brush on the vanity.
Let them see her raw.
Unyielding.
Unwashed in obedience.
---
They brought her to a room with tall windows and velvet walls. A dressing chamber, apparently—though it looked more like a boutique than anything practical. A mannequin stood in the center, clothed in a black gown that shimmered like ink under moonlight. There was only one chair in the room.
And in it—
Prince Damián.
Leaning back with legs crossed, black gloved fingers resting on his knee. Reading.
He looked up once as she entered. And that was all it took.
Serena stiffened.
The air changed.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd obey at all," he said.
She crossed her arms. "This isn't obedience. It's curiosity."
"Same path. Different shoes."
He stood, walking toward her slowly.
She held her ground, chin high.
"You'll wear the dress."
Her eyes flicked toward it. "And if I don't?"
His tone didn't change. "Then I'll dress you myself."
Her skin prickled. Not from fear. From rage.
From... something else she wasn't ready to name.
---
He gestured to a second garment bag hanging nearby. "Inside is a simpler option. Modest. No skin. No shape. You may choose that, if you wish."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why give me a choice?"
"Because I need to know what kind of rebellion I'm dealing with," he said, stepping close enough for her to see the subtle scar along his jaw. "The kind that runs... or the kind that claws."
---
She didn't move. Didn't blink.
Then, very slowly, she walked toward the black dress and touched the fabric. It was soft. Liquid.
"I'll wear this."
Damián's eyes darkened slightly. "Good."
"But not for you," she added, turning to meet his gaze. "For me. Because if I'm going to be paraded like a puppet, I'll do it in something that doesn't make me look like a nun."
His mouth twitched—an almost-smile. "You're not here to be a puppet."
"No?" she asked, raising a brow. "Then what *am* I here for?"
He stepped forward again, his voice dropping just enough to wrap around her like velvet.
"You're here to be seen."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.
Her stomach tightened.
It wasn't jewelry.
It was a collar.
Slim. Black leather. No decoration. Just a small, gold insignia embossed on the front.
The royal crest.
She went still.
He held it out. "Wear it."
Her throat went dry. "You're joking."
"No," he said. "This isn't a chain, Serena. It's a promise."
"A promise of what?"
His voice dropped, dark and smooth.
"That from the moment you put it on, no one touches you. No one commands you. No one even *dares* to address you without my permission."
She stared at it.
She'd worn chains before—cold, rusted ones in the back of a prison van. But this was different.
This was gilded. Symbolic. Chosen.
"You think I'd wear something that says I belong to you?" she asked.
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
She already knew the truth.
She already felt it.
Because deep in her bones—where fear used to live—there was something else now.
A fire.
---
She took the collar from his hand.
Held it for a long moment.
Then walked past him toward the mirror.
And without saying a word—without asking for help—she fastened it around her own throat.
The click echoed like a challenge.
And when she turned to face him, he didn't smirk.
He bowed.
Just slightly.
Because she wasn't tamed.
She was claimed.
And he was the only man who had dared to touch her without laying a hand on her.
---