The morning sun hit the marble floors of Blackwood Manor with a blinding glare, but the atmosphere inside remained as cold as a tomb. I had barely slept, the weight of Silas's presence in the master suite—even if he had stayed on his side of the massive bed—feeling like a physical pressure against my lungs.
I was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the breakfast nook when the sound of firm, rhythmic footsteps echoed behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know it was him. The scent of sandalwood and expensive soap always arrived a second before he did.
"Sit," Silas commanded. He didn't look at me as he sat at the head of the table, opening a leather-bound folder.
I sat. A silver platter was placed before me: poached eggs, avocado, and smoked salmon. It looked like art, but my stomach was a knot of anxiety.
"Eat everything, Elena," he said, finally lifting his silver eyes to mine. "We have a long day. You're going to be fitted for the gala tonight, and I don't have time for you fainting in the middle of a boutique."
"I can dress myself, Silas," I said, my voice bolder than I felt. "I don't need a chaperone to buy a dress."
Silas set his coffee cup down with a deliberate clink. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin. "You aren't buying a dress. You are being draped in the Thorne name. Every stitch of fabric, every diamond on your neck, will tell the world exactly who you belong to."
He stood up and walked toward me, stopping behind my chair. He leaned down, his hands resting on the table on either side of my arms, effectively trapping me. "You are my fiancée now. If you look like anything less than royalty, it reflects on me. And I do not tolerate flaws in my collection."
"Is that all I am to you? A piece for your collection?" I whispered.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "You're the most expensive piece I've ever bought, Elena.
Don't forget that."
An hour later, we were in the heart of the city's luxury district. The Maybach pulled up to a boutique that didn't even have a name on the door—only those who were invited knew what was inside.
As we walked in, the staff practically tripped over themselves to greet Silas. "Mr. Thorne! A pleasure. And this must be the lucky lady?"
Silas didn't answer. He led me to a velvet chair and signaled to the head stylist. "Bring the 'Midnight' collection. And the rubies."
For the next three hours, I was a doll. They poked, prodded, and draped me in silks that felt like water and lace that cost more than my father's medical bills. Every time I stepped out of the dressing room, Silas was there, sitting with a glass of scotch, his eyes scanning me with a dark, predatory hunger.
"Too modest," he said to a stunning emerald gown.
"Too bright," he dismissed a gold one.
Finally, I stepped out in a gown of midnight blue. It was backless, dipping dangerously low at the base of my spine, with a slit that traveled high up my thigh. The fabric shimmered like the night sky.
The room went silent. Silas stood up slowly, his glass forgotten on the table. He walked toward me, his eyes never leaving mine. The air in the boutique seemed to vanish as he stopped inches away.
He reached out, his hand sliding over the bare skin of my waist. His touch was electric, a searing heat that made my heart hammer against my ribs. He leaned down, his voice a low, possessive growl.
"This is the one."
"It's... it's a lot of skin, Silas," I managed to gasp.
He pulled me closer, his hand firm against the small of my back, forcing me to look up at him. "It's exactly enough. I want them to see what I have, Elena. I want every man in that room to burn with envy, knowing that they can look, but if they touch... I'll ruin them."
He signaled to the stylist. "We'll take it. And the matching sapphire choker. Tight. I want it to look like a collar."
My breath hitched. The word collar wasn't an accident. He wasn't just dressing me for a party; he was marking his territory.
As we walked back to the car, a photographer from a local tabloid tried to rush forward to get a shot of the "Viper's" mystery woman. Before the man could even raise his camera, Silas's arm was around my shoulders, pulling me flush against his side in a grip of iron.
"No pictures," Silas barked. The sheer coldness in his voice made the photographer freeze in his tracks.
Silas didn't let go of me until we were inside the shielded glass of the Maybach. Even then, he kept his hand on my thigh, his thumb stroking the silk of the dress—and the skin beneath it—in a slow, rhythmic motion that felt like a claim.
"You're doing well, Elena," he murmured, looking out at the city as we sped away. "Just keep playing your part tonight, and your father will be moved to the private wing of the infirmary by morning."
I looked at the hand on my leg, the hand of the man who owned my life, and realized the terrifying truth: I was starting to crave the very cage he had built for me.