Serena woke to the soft sound of a lock sliding open.
Not hers.
Not anymore.
She sat up in the massive, empty bed just in time to see the door to her chamber open.
Damián entered.
Not a servant. Not a summons. Him.
Black shirt. No jacket. Sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.
And eyes that pinned her in place.
"Rise," he said, voice low. "You and I begin today."
---
In the antechamber, a long table had been set with a single silver tray.
Inside, she found a breakfast far too rich for her stomach—eggs, toast, thick black coffee, fruit glistening like it had been painted.
Damián sat in the chair across from her, flipping through a document without looking up.
She didn't eat.
"Not hungry?" he asked without glancing her way.
"Not compliant."
Now he looked up.
There was no anger in his gaze.
Just interest.
Challenge.
"I see."
He set the document aside.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned forward and reached for the piece of toast on her tray.
Broke it in half.
Ate a bite.
The silence between them thickened.
"You'll need energy today," he said calmly.
"Because you're planning to work me to death?"
"No," he said. "Because I plan to teach you what happens when you're not obedient."
---
Her laugh was soft. "And what exactly does that mean, Your Highness? You going to lock me up again? Have me whipped in the gardens for the court to watch?"
He stood.
Walked around the table.
And stopped behind her chair.
She felt the heat of him before she heard the words.
"I don't need whips," he whispered near her ear. "I have words. Commands. And patience."
She turned, lifting her chin to meet his eyes.
"I'm not yours to train."
"You're already learning," he murmured. "You didn't flinch when I touched you."
"Maybe I don't flinch because I don't care."
His smile was slow. Cold. **Knowing.**
"No, Serena," he said softly. "You don't flinch because you're waiting for what happens next."
---
He stepped back.
"Follow."
And because the room felt too hot and her pride felt too loud, she did.
---
He led her through a door she hadn't seen before. Down a private hallway lined with thick stone, darker than the rest of the palace.
They entered a small room—intimate, cold.
Inside was a single chair.
And beside it, a long, narrow mirror.
Not glass.
**Polished silver.**
He turned to her.
"This is where obedience begins."
She crossed her arms. "This is where I stop pretending you make any sense."
Damián stepped closer.
No anger. No warning.
Just presence.
"I will give you three rules," he said quietly. "They will change. They will grow. But these three are the start."
She raised a brow. "And if I decline?"
He smiled.
"Then I will wait."
---
Rule One.
"You do not speak to other men unless I permit it."
She laughed. "You're serious."
"Deadly."
Rule Two.
"You do not remove the collar without my command."
She stepped closer. "And if I do?"
"Then I will put it back on myself."
Rule Three.
"You will never lie to me. Not once. Not even with silence."
She held his stare.
And for the first time, something flickered in his eyes—something not cold.
Not cruel.
But **interested.**
Engaged.
Not just the prince. Not just the power.
**The man.**
---
"And what do I get?" she asked. "For playing along with your twisted rules?"
He stepped even closer.
His hand reached out—
Not to touch her.
But to hold the **mirror**.
He angled it toward her, and for a breathless moment, all she saw was herself.
The collar. The gown. Her face flushed with quiet rebellion.
Then his voice:
"You get to see who you are when you're not pretending to be brave."
---
Serena didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Because the girl in the mirror wasn't the girl from the prison anymore.
She was something harder.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
---
He stepped back.
"You'll return here every morning," he said. "Dressed. Silent. Ready."
She narrowed her eyes. "And what will you do?"
He turned to go.
Paused.
And without looking back, he said,
"I'll break you. And when I do, you'll beg me not to stop."
---