“We're attending a Circle gathering tonight.” Damian’s voice cut smoothly through the awkward silence of dinner on Sera’s sixth night in his cage. He cut into his beef wellington as she looked up from her half-empty plate. “You'll be presented.”
“Presented?” Her stomach twisted.
“The Circle needs to see that you're mine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing more than a formality. You've been to galas before.”
“Not for nearly ten years,” she corrected, but the look on his face made it clear that not only did he know this, he very much did not care.
“The rules haven't changed. The staff will dress you this time so you see what's expected — in future, you'll dress yourself. At the gathering, you will stay silent and stay by my side. Is that understood, Seraphina?”
She didn't answer. Her stomach turned at the thought. Presented. Like a pet. Like a toy. Her fingers tightened over her knees, bunching her slacks in her fists.
“I asked you a question, Seraphina. I expect you to answer. Do you accept what I said?”
“No, I don't ‘accept what you said’,” she snapped. “I heard what you said. And my answer is no.”
His fork paused halfway to his mouth; he lowered it back to his plate. “Care to repeat that?” he asked, his quiet voice booming like a crack of thunder.
“My answer is no. I'm not going to your gathering, and I'm not gussying myself up so you can parade me around like your pretty little trophy in front of your high society friends. You can do whatever you like — I will be staying here.”
Damian calmly dabbed a cloth napkin against his lips, his ice blue eyes never leaving her defiant glare. He folded it, laid it primly on his plate, and pushed his chair back — then he moved, quick as a flash, rounding the table in three steps. His hand curled around her throat, just hard enough to apply a warning touch of pressure.
“Let me make myself utterly clear,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “For the next three hundred fifty-nine days, you are mine. You will obey every command I give — unless you want to see exactly how short my patience runs. Do you understand, Seraphina?”
She opened her mouth.
His fingers tightened over her throat. “Nod.”
She nodded.
“Good girl.” He patted her cheek just hard enough to sting and pulled away. His fingers brushed over her untouched dessert spoon, nudging it until it was perfectly perpendicular to her plate. “Finish your supper, Seraphina. Maryanne will dress you afterward.”
“I've lost my appetite,” she muttered, staring at her plate, heat crawling up her neck. She couldn't tell if it was anger, humiliation… or the lingering imprint of his hand at her throat. The realization made her stomach twist.
“Have you? Well, there will be refreshments at the gathering.” He turned away, gesturing dismissively over his shoulder. “If you're no longer hungry, return to your room. Maryanne will appreciate the extra time to prepare you.”
Sera didn't move for several seconds, long after the click of his Oxford heels on the polished mahogany floors faded to silence. Her hands fisted the soft rayon material of her slacks until her knuckles ached. She was just putting off the inevitable — she knew that full well. But she couldn't bring herself to get up and let herself be posed and painted like a doll.
