> "Some bonds are invisible. Others are carved into the soul so deep that the skin bleeds trying to hide them."
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The moon was a pale, silver coin dangling high above, casting its light through the tall, arched windows of Lyra's chamber. The curtains swayed gently with the midnight breeze, carrying the faint scent of night jasmine—the same intoxicating fragrance she always seemed to carry with her.
Dominic stood in the center of the room, bare-chested, his eyes fixed on the floor. His breath came unevenly, his jaw tight, not from resistance, but from the excruciating anticipation of what she was about to do.
Lyra, lounging in her dark velvet chair, looked at him like an artist contemplating a blank canvas. Only, Dominic wasn't blank. He was already hers, piece by piece, shattered and rebuilt under her touch.
Her crimson silk robe fell loosely around her body, revealing the ghost of curves that could ruin kingdoms and tempt kings to burn their crowns. She ran her fingers lazily along the edge of a silver tray beside her—on it lay an obsidian dagger, a small crystal vial filled with deep scarlet liquid, and a branding iron shaped into her sigil: a crescent moon entwined with a thorned rose.
"Do you know what this is, Dominic?" she asked, her voice a low purr.
He swallowed. "A brand, my Lady."
Her lips curved. "Not just a brand. It's a mark of ownership. Of permanence. The world will look at you and know—there is no part of you that does not belong to me."
Dominic's chest rose and fell faster. "And if the world already knows?"
"Then the world will see." Her gaze was sharp enough to cut through him. "This is not for them, Dominic. This is for you. So you never forget."
She rose from her chair, the robe whispering around her legs as she crossed the room. Her hand brushed along his jaw, forcing his chin up until their eyes met. "Once I mark you, there will be no escape. No other woman's touch will feel right. No command will outweigh mine. You will wake in the night aching for me."
Her voice sank to a whisper against his ear. "Do you want that?"
Dominic's restraint cracked, the raw hunger in him spilling out in his voice. "I already do."
She smiled faintly, almost cruelly, and turned to the table. The dagger's hilt was cold in her hand. With a precise, deliberate movement, she uncorked the crystal vial and let a few drops of the crimson liquid coat the blade. The scent of it was metallic and rich, almost alive.
Dominic frowned. "Is that—?"
"My blood," she answered, her tone unapologetically wicked. "Mixed with binding essence. When the mark is made, my presence will burn under your skin. You will feel me, no matter how far away you are."
The air between them thickened, heavy with power and something darker—desire braided with dread.
"Take off the rest," she commanded softly.
He obeyed without a word, letting the last barrier of fabric fall away. He stood bare before her, not as a man but as a subject awaiting his sentence—and craving it.
Lyra pressed her palm to his chest, right over his heart. "Here," she said. "So no woman will ever hold this again without feeling the weight of me."
Her fingers splayed, nails grazing his skin. Then, without warning, she dragged the dagger in a clean, shallow line across the place she had touched. Dominic hissed in pain, his hands twitching at his sides, but he didn't move.
The cut wasn't deep enough to kill—only to open the way for her magic. She set the dagger aside and took the heated branding iron from the coals. The metal glowed a dull, dangerous red.
"This will hurt more than anything I've given you before," she murmured, her eyes never leaving his. "And you will not flinch. You will not scream. You will take it like mine."
He breathed heavily, but his gaze was steady. "Then give it to me."
Her smirk returned. "As you wish."
The iron met his skin with a hiss, searing the crescent moon and thorned rose into him. Pain exploded through his body—white-hot, primal. Every nerve screamed, every muscle locked, but he didn't move. He couldn't. Her eyes held him in place as much as her will.
When she pulled the iron away, the scent of scorched skin hung in the air. Dominic was shaking, his chest glistening with sweat, but he was silent, his gaze fixed on her like a starving man on the only meal he'd ever wanted.
Lyra leaned in and pressed her lips to the raw, burning mark. The pain dulled instantly, replaced by a surge of heat so deep it felt like it came from his very soul. Her kiss sealed the wound—not with healing, but with possession.
When she pulled back, her lips were tinted with his blood. "It's done," she said softly. "You're mine in ways no mortal can undo."
Dominic's voice was hoarse. "I was always yours."
She tilted her head, studying him. "No, Dominic. You were loyal. You were obedient. But now…" She traced the fresh mark with one fingertip, making him shudder. "Now you're owned."
The room felt smaller, the air hotter. Dominic's knees almost gave under the weight of it—her presence, the searing reminder in his flesh, the knowledge that no matter where he went, she was inside him.
Lyra stepped back, reclaiming her chair like a queen returning to her throne. "Kneel."
He did, without hesitation, bowing his head.
"Say it."
His voice was low, reverent. "I am yours, Lyra."
"Again."
"I am yours."
Her smile deepened, sharp as a blade. "And you will never forget it."
Silence fell between them, thick and charged. Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, but inside the chamber, there was nothing but the echo of his vow and the pulse of her claim.
And somewhere in the depths of Dominic's mind, beneath the obedience and the desire, he knew—this wasn't the end of her control. This was the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Something he wasn't sure he wanted to survive.