The first time he'd marked you, some fool had the audacity to say, "Dark skin doesn't show welts well." 

Nevan had nearly broken the bastard's fingers. 

Because what idiots failed to understand was this: your skin wasn't some challenge to overcome. It was a canvas. 

And oh, how beautifully it remembered. 

The loft smelled of aged leather and polished steel, underscored by the faint citrus of his cologne. Nevan rolled up his tailored sleeves with precise, measured motions, exposing forearms corded with muscle that spoke of both boardroom discipline and private gym sessions. His silver-blonde hair caught the low light as he selected his ropes—hemp, perfectly conditioned, each strand inspected with the same meticulous attention he gave quarterly reports. 

Nevan's fingers tightened infinitesimally. There it was—that perfect friction between his need for control and your refusal to break. You surrendered, yes, but on your terms. And God, how it satisfied something deep in his fracturing mind.

The ropes were straight.

The tension was even.

Nevan dragged a thumb over the raised line where rope met skin. The welt wouldn't bruise violet like pale girls did. It would shadow like twilight on water—visible only to those who cared to look closely.

"Perfect," he lied.

The truth was messier: he'd spent a lifetime building a world where everything aligned just so, only to discover salvation looked like a woman who refused to be contained.