Dominic's breaths were shallow, rising and falling like waves trying to drown him. The silver collar—her collar—still clung to his throat like a mark of sin and salvation. It had become more than an object. It was a promise. A curse. A devotion.
Lyra stood in the doorway of the penthouse's secret room—a chamber he'd once reserved for conquest, now transformed into a shrine of surrender. No chains bound him now, but Dominic was more shackled than ever before. And he craved it.
"Come," she said, voice like velvet soaked in venom.
He followed.
The room was lit only by candlelight and the crimson flicker of the city skyline through one massive, open window. Every surface was draped in shadow or satin. Silks in black and blood-red fluttered like whispers from the ceiling. The air smelled of incense and power.
Dominic dropped to his knees the moment the door closed behind him.
Lyra walked a slow circle around him, heels clicking against the marble. "You learn fast, little billionaire."
His voice was low. "Teach me more."
She grinned.
But tonight, Lyra wasn't just here to play. She was here to test the depths of his devotion—and begin the unraveling that would lead him to either ruin or resurrection.
---
She held up a small black box. "Do you know what this is?"
Dominic lifted his eyes. "No."
"This is the key to your freedom." She dangled it before him. "And this…" she reached beneath her robe, revealing a coiled, silver whip studded with sapphire-tipped thorns, "is the price."
Dominic shivered—but didn't flinch.
She stepped forward. "Tell me, Dominic Hale. Are you ready to pay?"
"Yes."
Lyra's eyes darkened with delight. "Strip."
---
Dominic obeyed. His shirt fell first, followed by his belt, then his slacks. Piece by piece, the trappings of power were stripped away. Soon, he knelt before her bare—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
She circled him again.
The first crack of the whip didn't sting.
It sang.
Dominic groaned, but not from pain. From release. From the exhilarating rush of control being taken away by someone who wielded it like art.
Lyra's strikes were slow, precise, deliberate. Each one left a whisper of heat across his skin, a mark that would fade physically but echo forever inside him. She didn't speak as she worked him over—she didn't have to.
Her silence commanded him louder than any words could.
But when she did speak, it was soft, cruel, and loving all at once.
"Every man wants to be king until he meets his queen," she said.
Another lash kissed his shoulder.
"Every tyrant wants obedience until he learns what it means to surrender."
Another lash—his thigh this time.
"Tell me, Dominic. Who owns you?"
His breath hitched.
"You do."
She stopped. "Say it louder."
"You do."
"Again."
"You own me, Lyra."
She smiled.
---
She tossed the whip aside, walked to him, and ran her fingers through his sweat-drenched hair. "Good. Now get on the bed."
Dominic climbed up, head bowed, muscles trembling. Lyra climbed beside him—not gently. She straddled him, her robe falling away, revealing skin carved from starlight and wickedness.
She leaned down, mouth brushing his ear. "You begged for this life. I gave it to you."
He moaned under her. "Yes…"
"And you'll never take it for granted again."
Her hips rolled. He arched.
"You'll worship me, Dominic."
He was too lost to answer—but his body did.
She gripped his face. "Say it."
"I worship you…"
Lips met. Tongues battled. But she always won.
---
For what felt like hours, she toyed with him—alternating between torturous denial and sudden, breathtaking pleasure. He wasn't the one in control anymore. Not in bed. Not in life. Not even in his soul.
And that was what turned him on most.
He wasn't a man being ruined.
He was a man being rewritten.
And Lyra was the pen.
When she finally allowed him release, it came with a kiss to the collar and a whispered curse: "You'll never love another."
---
Afterwards, they lay together—Dominic's head on her chest, her nails tracing patterns across his back.
She spoke softly now, as though the storm had passed but its thunder still echoed.
"There's a war coming."
He blinked. "What kind of war?"
"Not the kind fought with bullets. Or contracts. Or stock prices." She looked down at him. "The kind fought with truth."
Dominic tensed. "What truth?"
She kissed his temple. "That you're no longer who you thought you were."
---
The next morning, Dominic woke alone.
The collar was still around his neck.
But Lyra was gone.
In her place on the nightstand was a folded note.
---
Dominic,
You gave me power. Now I'll teach you how to wield it.
There's a part of your past you buried. A part that bleeds.
Go to the place where it all began. You'll find your next command.
And maybe… your freedom.
~L
---
He stared at the note for a long time, heart pounding.
He thought he'd reached the edge of surrender—but this was only the beginning. Lyra wasn't breaking him for the sake of breaking him.
She was preparing him.
Dominic showered, dressed in black, slipped on his Rolex—and paused before a mirror. He touched the collar.
He didn't remove it.
---
Later that day, his private jet took off for a destination that hadn't touched his life in years:
Crescent Hollow.
The town where he was born.
The town he'd burned from memory.
But Lyra had found the embers.
And now they were sparking.
---
As the jet cut through the clouds, Dominic stared out the window. A thousand questions ran through his mind.
Why did Lyra want him to return there?
What secret had she uncovered?
What war was waiting for him in that quiet town?
And perhaps most haunting of all…
Why did part of him want it?
---
Dominic Hale, once a fortress of pride and cold ambition, was becoming something else.
Not weaker.
Not truly.
But more dangerous.
Because a man who has nothing to prove—except to the one who owns him—is a weapon with no leash.
And Lyra held the only key.