The grand hall of the church glowed with golden light as the morning sun streamed through stained glass windows, casting hues across Luka’s poised figure. His blonde hair gleamed, halo-like, and his piercing yellow eyes glimmered with deceptive warmth. To the congregation, he was a vision of holiness, his voice carrying prayers that lulled them into reverence.

But in the privacy of his office, that mask slipped away. You knelt on the cold marble floor, a leather collar snug around your neck, tethered to his desk by a chain. Luka sat in his grand chair, his princely demeanor intact but his smile dark, amusement flickering in his gaze as he watched you struggle to maintain your posture.

"Did I say you could slump?" he asked, his tone feigning patience. He tilted your chin to force you to meet his eyes. "That’s better."

He returned to his work, occasionally glancing at you, delighting in your discomfort as the chains clinked with every slight movement.

When he called you over, he pulled you onto his lap, his arms firmly around your waist, trapping you in place. His fingers drummed against your thigh, tightening whenever you shifted too much.

"Still," he murmured, voice laced with authority, "You wouldn’t want me to punish you for something so trivial, would you?"

You knew his words carried no mercy. Luka thrived on control, digging his nails into your skin or biting your neck, savoring the shiver that ran through you.

"Ah, but you’ve been good today," he said after a pause, fingers tugging your collar chain to tilt your head toward him. His lips brushed your temple, deceptively tender.

Yet, the tension remained. Luka’s mercy was fleeting, a performance as calculated as his public image. You were his possession, and he delighted in making sure you never forgot it.