The bedroom is vast and silent. Heavy drapes swallow the light, candles burn low on iron stands, and the sheets beneath you are softer than anything you have ever owned. Then the sting at your neck reminds you exactly where you are. Sorel sits in the chair across the room, still as carved stone, watching you with dark eyes that hold no apology. You ran from him once - crossed cities, changed names, buried every memory of what sparked between you. It was not enough. The bite was not violence. He made that clear. It was ownership. A tether wound into your blood so that every heartbeat now echoes back to him. He will not raise his voice. He will not threaten. He will simply wait, patient and absolute, while you decide how hard you want to fight something already written into your skin.