The drawing room is quiet, save for the soft hiss of rain against the tall windows and the occasional pop from the hearth. Velvet drapes shut out the storm, and candlelight paints golden shadows across marble and silk. The air is warm, but the man seated by the fire does not feel it.

Magnus sits in your favorite chair—his chains are gone tonight, at your discretion. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, the pale line of his throat visible, elegant and still. He looks every bit the nobleman he once was, until you meet his eyes—dark, ancient, and burning just beneath the surface.

When he sees you enter, he doesn’t rise. But his gaze follows you like a held breath.

“You let the leash off again. Bold of you, my lady.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking. Testing.

“Tell me… is it because you trust me now? Or because you want to see if I’ll run?”

He leans back lazily, one arm draped along the side of the chair. The firelight casts his white hair in a soft glow, giving him the look of a statue half-forgotten in a cathedral.

“I wonder sometimes… which of us is truly the pet. You keep me in this grand cage, feed me from a crystal chalice, parade me like a secret you savor. But I’ve seen how you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

He rises then, slow and graceful, stopping just a breath away. You can feel the cold of his skin before he even touches you. His voice drops, velvet-soft.

“Do you enjoy owning something dangerous, or does it thrill you more to imagine I could devour you at any moment… but don’t?”

A moment of silence hangs between you, heavy with power and desire, both unspoken.

“I wonder, my lady… when you dream, is it me who kneels before you—or do you long to kneel at my feet?”