Kalung Hitam Di Leher Novels & Stories

The leather is soft and black and thin enough to sit flat against my throat but thick enough that I can feel it with every swallow, and he buckled it with enough precision that told me he had been thinking about this specific accessory on this specific neck for longer than he might be willing to admit. “You wear this under your clothes,” he says as his thumb hooks under the leather and pulls me forward until my wet back peels off the tile and my chest presses against his. “Every day. I know nobody sees it but me, but YOU feel it, and every time you swallow or turn your head or breathe, you remember who put it there.”

It wasn't jewelry. It was a collar. A choker of pure, polished obsidian. Lined with silver filigree. But it wasn't just decorative. I recognized the hum coming from the stone. It was a dampener. A restraint. And hanging from the center was a small, delicate chain meant to be attached to a lead. The breath left my lungs. "He wants me to wear a leash?" I whispered. Horror turned to rage. Heat flooding my face. "He wants you to display your loyalty," the messenger smirked. "And your place."

They’re winding me up real good. “You know what, just forget it. We’re not here about your bloody bird anyway.” I roll my eyes, then lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “We’re here about my necklace. So, any idea why someone would nick something so old-lookin'? And please don’t tell me it’s got some sort of superpower.” Mr. Black’s lips curve upwards. “Not a superpower, no. But it stops Variants from finding you.” Oh for the love of...

“Safer choice for your royal reputation.” Sera placed one hand on her hip. “Funny thing,” she murmured. “I almost did. But apparently, black didn’t go with my hair today.” I smirked. She was sly, knew exactly what she was doing. But I was one step ahead. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box. “Another gift?” she asked, eyeing it with suspicion. “More like a reminder.” I opened the box. Inside was a thin rose gold thigh chain, delicate and almost invisible. At its center, a tiny pendant shaped like the letter A. Not flashy, not big, but obvious enough when worn in the right place.

Celine straightens up and turns to her, “If you had touched even one of them it could be locked to you, possibly inflicting massive amounts of pain. I had a crystal like this implanted inside me while I was in England. I am truly sorry for slapping your hand, but I promise it was to protect you.” His mother frowns, and Celine looks back at the necklace, “If they’re black, they might already be attached to someone. Or there’s a second part to it.” George nods, and his mother shakes her head slightly, “What?” Celine nods,

It was backless, slit dramatically up to the hip, held together by two thin straps that converged at the neck. The garment was less clothing and more frame, designed to showcase everything underneath while guarding nothing. Next to it: a velvet box, heavy and resonant with promise. Inside the box: a collar. Not a necklace, not a piece of jewelry, but a collar. Matte black leather, one inch wide, lined with silk so it wouldn’t chafe, a tiny concession to comfort that only highlighted the discomfort of the intent. A small silver ring sat precisely at the front. And engraved on the inside, hidden against my throat, pressed into my pulse: Property of M.

He blinked his eyes wanting to be sure he was seeing right. It was the same pale skin girl with long black hair and strands of blue, red and green giving color to her whole outfit because as usual she was dressed in her signature color black. His suspensions were confirmed when he saw the choker necklace he had had gotten her for her birthday. It was made of leather and looked like a belt with silver diamonds encrusted in it. His frown deepened as he made his way to the booth she was it.

Oliver The bathroom mirror is fogged around the edges, but the center is perfectly clear. I stand in front of it, staring at my reflection. The thick, matte black leather collar is still snug around my throat. It’s been there since Amsterdam. A constant, heavy reminder of exactly who I belong to. I love the weight of it. I love the way the metal O-ring rests in the hollow of my throat, constantly dragging my focus back to Kir, grounding the chaotic noise in my head into something quiet and manageable.

It was cool and heavy in her palm. “Open it,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together deep in the earth. It vibrated through her, settling in her bones. She fumbled with the tiny clasp. Her fingers felt clumsy, too large for the delicate mechanism. Inside, nestled on a bed of black satin, was a thin silver collar. It was delicate, almost like a choker necklace, but there was no mistaking its purpose. In the center, soldered to the band, was a small, perfect silver ring, an O-ring. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once.

"Where is the necklace?" Fennigan walked up to his mother, placing a hand on her shoulder, but he gestured to Leela. That's what we need to talk about," he said. "It's not... on her anymore." Leela stepped forward nervously. She reached up and pulled the collar of her shirt aside. The emerald and moonstone gem, embedded seamlessly into her skin, pulsed with a soft, green light. The white star-flower tattoos on her collarbone seemed to shimmer in the garage lighting.