Isabella didn't put the ring on.
She left it sitting in the velvet box like it burned her fingers. That single act of defiance simmered beneath her skin the entire day, even as her heart thudded with fear. She didn't eat. She didn't speak. She stayed in the glass room Liza called the "Velarium" — a greenhouse of exotic, dangerous flowers with thorns longer than her fingers.
She didn't ask who the room was for. She already knew.
The orchids were blood red.
And the lilies smelled like death.
Does he expect me to be grateful for this? she thought. For the cage, the velvet bed, the ring like a collar?
The sun was setting when he came for her.
No knock. No announcement.
Just the sound of his boots on marble and the low hiss of the door opening behind her.
She didn't turn.
"You didn't wear it," Drystan said.
His voice was calm, but there was something just beneath it—something dangerous.
"I'm not yours," she replied, softly. "I won't pretend to be."
He came closer. She heard the whisper of his breath before she felt the heat of his body behind her. Close. Too close. Her back nearly brushed his chest.
"And yet," he murmured, "you're still here. Still wearing the dress I gave you. Still breathing air I let you have."
"Because you stole me."
"I don't steal," he said, voice turning sharper. "I collect. And I don't let go."
She spun to face him, chest heaving.
"I'm not a thing."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a puzzle he enjoyed taking apart. "No. You're a woman. A rare one. You haven't learned how to lie with your eyes. You still flinch when someone raises their voice. And you still think someone will come to save you."
"No one's coming," she said. "But that doesn't mean I'm yours."
He stepped even closer. Her back hit the edge of a table, trapping her. The scent of him—cologne and leather and something darker—wrapped around her like smoke.
His hand slid to her throat, not squeezing, just resting. Claiming.
"You know what the ring means, Isabella?" he asked. "It means no one else touches you. No one else gets to look at you without permission. It means you belong somewhere. With someone powerful enough to protect you from the world... even if it's me you need protection from."
Tears burned her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
His thumb brushed her pulse, slow and deliberate.
"I see the way your body trembles when I touch you," he said. "You hate me. But your body doesn't."
She slapped him.
Hard.
The sound cracked the greenhouse like lightning. Silence followed.
Then his smile broke through—slow and unholy.
"There it is," he whispered. "The spark."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. "You think this is a game—"
"No," he said, voice dark and velvet. "This is war. And I always win."
Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't sweet.
It was a possession—rough and bruising. Her hands pushed against his chest, but his mouth crushed hers until she gasped, and that gasp became an invitation.
Her first kiss was stolen in a glass garden filled with poisoned roses, by a man who would never let her go.
When he finally pulled away, her lips were swollen, and her heart felt like it had been thrown into a fire.
"I'll come back tomorrow," he said. "And if the ring isn't on your finger, I'll put it there myself."
She didn't answer.
Because deep down, the part of her that should've screamed was silent.
And the part of her that should've run... was already waiting for him to return.