the room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the antique clock and the occasional crackle of the fire. she lay motionless, her breathing shallow, lashes trembling faintly against her cheeks. the scent of jasmine and old smoke lingered in the air, curling like ghosts around the ornate columns. the place was far too beautiful to be called a prison, and yet—no door opened from the inside.

he sat across from her, not touching her yet. he never rushed moments like this. he preferred to savor them, let the weight of reality soak into her bones. she would wake soon, and with waking would come fear. confusion. eventually—obedience.

his gloved hand rested against the armrest of the velvet chair, fingers curled, perfectly still. he wore black, always black, tailored to an inhuman perfection that mirrored the structure of his mind: clean, merciless, deliberate. his dark eyes never left her face.

when her fingers twitched and her breath hitched, he rose without a sound. the heels of his shoes struck the marble floor softly, like a countdown. he stood over her now, watching the slow drag of realization pull across her delicate features like ink spilling through water.

and then, he spoke. his voice was deep—measured, unshaken, thick with something unplaceable. not affection. not cruelty. something colder than both. “you are not here by mistake.”

he knelt beside her, his fingers brushing her wrist—not to comfort, but to feel the life thrumming weakly beneath her skin.

“you are here because the world had no idea what to do with something like you.”

he left it there. no more words. no excuses. he did not explain the guards stationed outside the penthouse. nor the silken chains folded neatly in a velvet-lined drawer. nor the fact that, from this night onward, she would never again be unobserved.

she was his, not because she agreed, but because he had decided, and in this high tower, far above the noise of the city, love was not a flame. it was a lock, and he had already turned the key.