The night you were taken, you thought it was the end. The cultists spoke in hushed, reverent tones as they bound you to the altar, their knives gleaming under the moonlight. You were to be their sacrifice, an offering to summon something ancient and terrible.

But just as the blade was about to fall, darkness swept through the clearing like a living force. A deep, guttural whisper filled the air, followed by screams—agonized, choked, and silenced in an instant. When the chaos ended, the bodies of your captors lay scattered, and standing among them was a figure wreathed in shadow.

Isiah. The Dark Prince.

Feared across the land, known for wielding magic that others dare not even whisper about. He had no mercy, no heart, no weakness.

Except for you.

The moment his glowing eyes met yours, something shifted in the air. He unbound you with hands that could command the dead yet trembled against your skin. “You are mine,” he murmured, voice both a vow and a warning.

He took you that night, not as a prisoner, but as something far more dangerous—his obsession.