The morning was quiet but not the kind of silence that brought peace. It was the kind that curled under her skin, prickling and thick, suffocating like velvet pressed against the mouth. Aria woke alone in the grand bedroom, the sheets smooth and untouched beside her, as if Damien hadn't returned to the estate last night or if he had, he'd deliberately avoided her.
She sat up slowly, her muscles aching with the ghost of yesterday's heat. The encounter with Jaxon still burned behind her eyelids, not because she wanted him, but because of how wrong it had felt to want anything in his presence. And yet… her body had responded.
The velvet box still sat on her nightstand. She'd barely looked at it last night, but now, in the sharp morning light, it was impossible to ignore. She flipped the lid open.
Two pieces waited inside.
The necklace: dark steel, minimalist and sleek, with no gems just silent wealth and intention.
And beside it… the collar.
The same one she thought she'd never wear again. Black velvet, lined with satin. No embellishments. Just a single silver ring at the center unmistakably symbolic.
Aria's breath caught in her throat. The message was clear.
You are still mine.
She stood and wrapped herself in a silk robe, then walked to the mirror. The necklace went on first. Light. Elegant.
Then, after a beat, she lifted the collar.
It was heavier than she remembered. Or maybe that was just the weight of surrender.
The moment the clasp clicked into place at the nape of her neck, she felt it not just the choker itself, but the invisible leash that came with it.
By the time she descended the stairs, the staff moved around her with the grace of practiced discretion. Eyes lowered. Mouths tight. Even the usually curt Mrs. Hollow kept her head bowed.
But it was Cole who confirmed what was coming.
He stood at the base of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, posture stiff.
"He's waiting," he said quietly. "In the Red Room."
The words hit her gut like a punch.
The Red Room.
She hadn't stepped foot in it since the day she signed the contract. It wasn't a bedroom. It wasn't even a playroom. It was a space for breaking. For reestablishing order.
Her heels echoed off the marble as she walked toward it.
The door was already open.
And Damien was inside.
He stood by the window, the late morning light washing over him like a painting black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, black trousers perfectly pressed. His gloves were on, sleek leather hugging his hands. His hair was slightly messy, and his jaw was shadowed in stubble.
He looked dangerous.
And completely untouchable.
Aria stepped into the room, and the door shut behind her.
He didn't turn.
"Take off the necklace," he said.
She hesitated.
"Leave the collar."
Her fingers trembled as she unclasped the necklace and placed it on the nearby table.
Damien turned then. Slowly. His eyes dragged over her like a blade.
"You wore both." His voice was calm. Even. Which somehow made it worse. "Interesting."
"You left both," she replied, lifting her chin.
"And you thought that meant you had a choice?" he asked.
"I always have a choice."
He moved toward her with glacial precision. "Not after yesterday."
Her chest rose and fell. "You sent me there."
"I sent you into the world. Not into another man's hands."
"I didn't ask him to touch me."
"But you let him." Damien's voice dropped, thick with restrained fury. "You let him get close. You let him whisper filth into your ears. And you didn't walk away."
Aria flushed. Her voice faltered. "It didn't mean anything."
"To him?" Damien stepped even closer. "Maybe not. But to me? It meant you forgot the most important rule."
Her pulse pounded. "What rule?"
"You. Are. Mine."
Then, without another word, he stepped behind her and yanked the silk belt from her robe with a single, brutal tug.
The robe fell open.
She gasped as the air touched her skin. She hadn't worn anything underneath.
He didn't speak again. Just reached up and unclasped the robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
She stood there, completely naked except for the collar, her body flushed and tense, goosebumps rising across her arms.
"Kneel."
She didn't move.
Damien walked around her, slow, patient. "Don't test me, Aria."
Still, she didn't drop.
He said nothing. Just stepped away.
And that silence hurt more than anything else.
Her pride warred with her shame. Her desire battled her fear.
And then, slowly, she sank to her knees.
Damien exhaled like it pleased him. Like it satisfied something deep inside him.
He circled behind her and tied her wrists together with the robe's belt, his fingers quick, firm. Then he pulled a blindfold from his pocket black silk, soft and scented with something dark and musky. His cologne.
She didn't resist when he tied it over her eyes.
The world disappeared.
Just her breathing. Just her heartbeat. Just the awareness of him his footsteps, the shift in air, the heat of his gaze.
"You don't cum today unless I let you," he murmured into her ear. "That's your punishment. You'll want it. You'll beg for it. But I won't give it to you."
Her lips parted.
"I'm going to make you remember who you belong to."
His fingers skimmed down her back. She shuddered.
He spread her thighs apart with the toe of his boot. Then knelt behind her, breathing heat against the inside of her leg.
And then he touched her.
Not with fingers.
With his mouth.
Soft at first. Barely there. Then deeper. Rougher. Tongue and lips and teeth. He devoured her as if she were his last meal. Her hips bucked. Her breath hitched. She whimpered, then moaned, then cried out.
But he stopped.
Every time she reached the edge, he pulled away.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
She was shaking by the third denial.
By the fifth, she was begging.
"Please," she whispered. "Damien—please, I need it—"
His voice was molten against her neck. "You'll get nothing until you say it."
Her head thrashed. "Say what?"
"Say who you belong to."
Tears pressed behind her blindfold. Not from pain. But from surrender.
"I belong to you," she whispered.
He spanked her once hard, the sound echoing through the room.
"Louder."
"I belong to you," she gasped.
Again.
Harder.
"I belong to you!"
Only then did he untie her wrists, rip the blindfold off, and shove her onto the plush bench in the center of the room. Her legs spread. Her eyes dazed.
And he unbuckled his belt.
The sound alone made her core clench.
He didn't undress.
He didn't need to.
He pulled his pants down just enough, and then he was there.
Inside her.
Hard. Deep. Unforgiving.
She cried out not from pain, but from the shocking rightness of it. From how perfectly he filled her. How completely he consumed her.
He held her down with a hand on her throat, not choking, just reminding.
Reminding her who owned her.
He thrust into her over and over, grunting low, every inch of him claiming her all over again.
"You don't come," he growled.
But it was too late.
She was unraveling.
She was already there.
And when she shattered around him, he didn't stop.
He just slammed into her harder.
Punishing her.
Branding her.
And when he finally came, it was with a deep, guttural sound that shook her bones.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Bodies tangled.
Breath heavy.
No words.
Eventually, he cleaned her gently. Lifted her in his arms and carried her to the leather chaise. He wrapped her in the fallen robe and kissed her forehead.
But then… he left.
No affection.
No softness.
Just… absence.
She didn't cry.
She just stared at the ceiling.
Numb.
Satisfied.
Wrecked.
And when she returned to her bedroom that evening, her phone buzzed with a message from a number she didn't recognize.
Jaxon: That wasn't the end. You felt it too.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Then she deleted it.
But her hands didn't stop shaking.