The mirror room became her routine.
Every morning.
Every breath.
Every glance that lingered too long on the collar around her throat.
Damián didn't touch her. Not really.
Not yet.
But he didn't have to.
He watched her the way a falcon watches something that hasn't realized it's prey.
And Serena—foolishly, desperately—kept pretending she didn't feel it.
---
This morning, she dressed herself in soft gray silk. No lace. No drama. But the collar—always the collar—gleamed beneath her throat like a brand she now wore with open defiance.
She entered the mirror room, as instructed.
He was already there.
Reading. Waiting.
Glancing up as if he hadn't been waiting at all.
"You're learning," he said.
"I'm enduring."
"Same path," he murmured. "Different wounds."
---
He didn't offer her a seat.
He simply walked to her—slow, deliberate—and circled behind.
"I've been observing you," he said softly. "You hold your chin too high in front of others. You mask tension with sarcasm. You breathe shallowly when men speak to you—unless it's me."
"I'm not interested in your analysis."
"You should be," he said. "Because it's not for me. It's for you."
She turned to face him.
And stopped short.
He was closer than he had ever stood before.
His breath was warmth at her temple.
"You haven't figured it out yet, have you?" he asked.
"Figured what out?"
"That I'm not trying to break you, Serena." His voice dropped low. Velvet. Lethal. "I'm trying to teach you what you are beneath all that fire."
"And what's that?" she whispered.
His eyes met hers. No smirk this time. No mask.
"Mine."
---
He stepped back then.
And just like that, the moment cracked open and fell into silence.
---
Later that day, she found herself summoned again—this time to the Royal Gallery.
A long corridor lined with portraits, advisors, and the kind of nobles who thought they could control kingdoms from behind fans and champagne.
Damián stood beside her.
One hand lightly resting on her lower back. His claim. His warning.
They greeted ambassadors, generals, councilors. None of them dared speak to her without glancing at him first.
She hated how powerful that made her feel.
She hated how he knew it.
---
Then came the Duke of Viremont.
Tall. Blonde. Charming.
Too charming.
"Your Highness," he greeted Damián, bowing.
Then turned to her.
"And you must be the Companion," he said, smiling. "I must admit, I thought you'd be… softer."
She didn't smile. "That's because I'm not meant to be touched."
The Duke laughed lightly, reaching for her hand.
And Damián moved.
Not with force.
But with **precision**.
He caught the Duke's wrist mid-air.
A soft sound.
Like silk cutting silk.
Everyone stopped.
Damián's voice was quiet. Dangerous.
"She isn't yours to touch."
The Duke blinked, unsettled. "It was just a greeting—"
"She is not to be greeted. She is not to be handled. She is mine."
---
That night, Serena stood in her chamber, chest still tight from the moment.
It hadn't been possessiveness.
It had been **rage**.
Controlled. Quiet. But sharp enough to cut.
And underneath it, something far more dangerous:
The truth that part of her had liked it.
Part of her had *wanted* to be defended.
To be claimed.
To feel untouchable—because he made her so.
---
When she undressed that night, her hands lingered at the collar clasp.
But she didn't remove it.
Not because of obedience.
Not because of fear.
But because when she looked in the mirror now…
She didn't see a prisoner.
She saw something powerful.
Beautiful.
And wanted.
---