Chapter 4

Elara did not walk back to the master suite; she fled. The shock of Silas’s possessive claim beneath the table, combined with Lady Eleanor’s cruel scrutiny, had left her shaking with repressed fury. She flew up the cold marble stairs, pulling the tight clasp from her hair as she went, the heavy copper strands tumbling loose around her shoulders.

She dismissed the nervous maid, Lily, with a curt nod at the door and slammed the entrance shut. The first thing she did was tear the expensive dress off her body, the silk hissing as it fell in a heap of defiant green onto the polished wood floor. She was breathing heavily, drained, and felt the shame of being marked for possession like a physical weight.

She was still in her silk slip, pacing the vast sleeping area, when she heard the sound she dreaded most.

It was not a knock. It was the distinct, deliberate click of the electronic smart-lock on the adjoining door, the door that led directly from Silas’s private study into their bedroom. It was the sound of a key-card that did not obey a lock; it simply commanded it open.

Elara froze. The furious, emotional strength she had been drawing from her resistance shattered instantly. She spun around, her eyes wide, blazing green in the dim light cast by the minimalist floor lamps.

Silas stepped into the master bedroom.

He was no longer the public heir. He was simply a man, immense and dark, and utterly predatory. He had removed his black dinner coat, leaving him in a crisp Charvet white shirt, the fabric stretched taut over the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders and dark Brioni trousers. His sleeves were rolled up precisely to his forearms, revealing the taut, corded strength beneath the cuff of his wrist, where the heavy, dark leather strap of his Patek Philippe watch was visible.

He did not close the door immediately. He merely paused at the threshold, his slate eyes scanning the vast room, taking in every detail: the silk dress pooled on the floor, the stripped bed, and finally, the defiant, furious figure of Elara standing before the massive painting of the sea.

“You have wasted no time in attempting to mark your territory, Elara,” he observed, his voice low, deeper than it had been at the table. “The destruction of the drapery tie, the refusal of the luxury linens. And the artwork. I see you are determined to remind me that you are here by force, not by choice.”

Elara stood her ground, refusing to shrink. She wrapped her arms around her body. “I am here by transaction, Silas. Not by ownership. And I do not recall any clause in that contract that requires me to be a decorative, silent idiot.”

He finally moved. He took one slow, deliberate step away from the doorway, and then another. The measured pace spoke of absolute, contained power.

“The contract defines the parameters of your life now,” Silas stated, stopping just six feet from her. “The management of this house, the perception of my associates, and the compliance of my wife. I warned you in the antechamber that your defiance would be tolerated only in private. You chose to make a statement at dinner.”

He lifted his left hand, slowly turning it over, revealing the faint snag of the black wool thread clinging to the cuff of his shirt from where she had retaliated beneath the table.

“A clever move,” he admitted, his voice almost cold appreciation. “But a costly one. You need to learn that when I make a private demonstration of ownership, your response must be silence, not war.”

Elara shook her head sharply, a streak of desperate, defiant tears welling in her eyes, tears of pure, unadulterated fury. “I am not an animal to be trained! You will not mark me like livestock, Silas. You will not violate my dignity with your cheap acts of possession!”

Silas took two more steps. He was now close enough that Elara could smell the subtle scent of the cologne on his skin, a dizzying mix of authority and heat. He moved with the quiet grace of a predator, cornering her against the dresser and her defiant painting.

He raised his hand. Elara’s breath hitched again, but she did not flinch.

His fingers went not to her face, but to the loose, wild tendrils of copper hair. He captured a heavy coil of the hair between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it taut, gently but firmly, until her head was tilted back slightly, exposing the pale, vulnerable curve of her throat.

The contact was intensely intimate, violating her personal space with brutal slowness.

“You believe you are a queen, Elara,” he murmured, his voice now a low, dangerous growl. “I will tolerate the fire in your eyes. But I will not tolerate the threat to my control. You must understand, unequivocally, that your body, your presence, and your compliance are mine to command.”

His gaze locked onto the exposed skin of her neck. His hand moved from her hair to the curve of her shoulder, holding her in place. His other hand settled on the hard, dark wood of the dresser beside her head, trapping her.

He lowered his head slowly, deliberately. She felt the cool air from his breath and then the shocking, soft, yet firm press of his mouth against the delicate skin of her collarbone, just below the high neckline of her slip.

It was not a kiss of passion. It was a brand of ownership.

When he lifted his head, Elara saw the evidence of his claim: a dark, immediate bruise of color blooming against her pale skin. A perfect, raw hickey, a mark of his absolute, private possession.

“You barbaric brute,” she choked out, her voice raw with hatred and the tears of her helplessness. “You are beneath contempt.”

Silas watched the tears fall, utterly unmoved. He used his thumb to wipe a single, burning tear from her cheek.

“Tears of fury are acceptable, Elara. Tears of submission are not required,” he stated, his voice flat. He then lowered his head again, pressing his mouth against the very spot he had just marked, a final, lingering touch that was pure, possessive claim.

“That is what happens when you attempt to damage my property, Elara,” he murmured against her skin. “I remind you of the cost. Do not challenge me in public again. This is your cage. I am your lock. You will learn to stand still when you are commanded.”

He drew back, removing his hands entirely.

Silas gave her one final, assessing look. He simply turned, walked back to the adjoining door, and disappeared into his private study, closing the door and locking it from his side with another definitive click of the smart-lock.