The bedroom was silent, save for the rhythmic rattling of the gold chain against the headboard. Silas lay on the silk sheets, staring at the ceiling as his mind raced. Every movement of his left arm was a reminder of his failure. He was an elite assassin, a "Ghost" who could slip through any security, yet he had been brought to his knees by a Prince's kiss and a pair of golden shackles.
The scent of Alaric—sandalwood and expensive rain—saturated the very air he breathed. Silas tried to focus on his brother, imagining the cold stone of the palace dungeon, but the memory was slipping. Instead, all he could feel was the phantom heat of Alaric's body pressing against his. His pulse was still erratic, dancing under the skin where the gold cuff bit into his wrist.
He closed his eyes, drifting in a state of exhaustion and sensory overload. The gold felt heavy, but the weight in his chest was heavier. For years, he had been a tool for others, a shadow with no identity. Now, Alaric had given him a name and a purpose, even if that purpose was to be a captive mate. The realization was terrifying. Silas wasn't just losing his freedom; he was starting to crave the very man who had stolen it.