The Crack in the Glass
Valenhart Manor – Private Study, One Hour After Anna Walked Out
He hadn't moved.
Not since the door shut behind her.
She left like it was her house.
No hesitation.
No glance over her shoulder.
And now—
Daimion sat in the wingback chair near the fire, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, staring at the flames like they had answers he couldn't force.
"She's not afraid anymore," he said aloud.
The words felt foreign in his mouth.
Wrong.
Impossible.
He had taken her. He had broken her. He had made her scream his name into silk and shadows.
But when she looked at him an hour ago, something in her gaze had shifted.
It hadn't pleaded.
It hadn't been submitted.
It had measured him.
And for the first time in his life, he didn't know what she wanted.
Obsession Tightening
He tried to replay the moment. Frame by frame.
The way she didn't flinch when he touched her jaw. The way she said his name with no tremble. The way she walked out without waiting for the leash to tug.
His fingers clenched the whiskey glass so hard the crystal cracked.
He stood. Walked toward the window. The sea rolled in the distance, quiet, endless, untouchable.
Just like her.
"She thinks she's in control now."
He said it to himself.
But it sounded more like a question.
The Ghost of Her
He could still smell her.
On his skin.
In the sheets.
In the air.
Her taste lived in the seams of his mouth. Her moans etched under his fingernails. Her pain used to be predictable—a rhythm he mastered.
But now?
Now it was a silence he didn't know how to fill.
He wasn't used to silence.
Not from her.
He wasn't used to losing ground.
He moved to the sideboard, poured more whiskey.
Didn't drink it.
Just stared into the glass.
She hadn't cried. She hadn't begged. She had smiled.
And it wasn't a smile of surrender.
It was a promise.
Rage Without Target
He slammed the glass into the fireplace.
The sound exploded like a gunshot.
He wanted to follow her.
Drag her back to bed.
Remind her who owned her.
But something stopped him.
Not fear.
Uncertainty.
She had seen something in him.
And he didn't know what it was.
That terrified him more than any armed man ever had.
He sat again.
Stared at the broken glass in the firelight.
And whispered her name.
"Anna…"
The Possession Breeds Fear
She was still his.
Legally.
Physically.
Emotionally?
He wasn't sure anymore.
And that was worse than losing her.
Because it meant she could walk beside him, sleep under him, cry into him— and still be plotting his ruin with every heartbeat.
She had become… unpredictable.
And Daimion didn't survive this long by letting chaos live under his roof.
But he couldn't kill her.
He couldn't silence her.
He didn't want another puppet.
He wanted her.
Alive.
Burning.
But only for him.
He stood.
Fast.
The fire snapped behind him.
"No," he growled. "You don't win. You don't walk away."
He would remind her.
Soon.
How she came apart under his mouth.
How her thighs clenched when he whispered.
How the girl who challenged gods still whimpered when he touched her just right.
She wanted a war?
He'd give her one.
But she would crawl back by the end of it.
And this time—
She'd beg.
Not out of fear.
But because she couldn't help it.
He thought breaking her once would be enough. But now—he would have to break her mind. And his own… to win her again.
The Command That Wasn't a Choice
Valenhart Manor — 3 hours after Monte Carlo
The silence after the masquerade was worse than the gala itself.
Anna stood near the bedroom window, the hem of her red gown wrinkled in her fists. Her skin still bore the trace of his mouth from the jet. Her thighs still ached from where he'd claimed her the second time. But her mind—
It was spiraling.
Celeste's voice echoed in her bones.
"You don't know what he is yet."
She hadn't asked to see him again tonight.
But he came anyway.
The door opened behind her. Slowly. Quietly.
Daimion.
Still in his tuxedo. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Hands bare.
But there was no softness in his expression.
Only purpose.
"You've been… unsettled," he said.
Anna said nothing.
"You still think what we've done is the worst I can offer?"
Still nothing.
He stepped closer. "Do you think what happened in Monte Carlo broke you?"
She turned, eyes flashing. "You let her touch you."
"I let her test you."
"I'm not one of your weapons," she hissed. "You don't get to sharpen me against other women—"
He struck the table with his palm.
She flinched.
Then—
Silence.
He walked toward her slowly. Unhurried. And yet the pressure in the room grew thick.
"You're coming with me," he said quietly.
She blinked. "What?"
"I'm taking you away."
Her heart stammered. "Where?"
"Everywhere you can't hide from who you are."
She stepped back. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
He smiled.
Not kind.
Not amused.
Just… inevitable.
"You'll come because if you don't, your parents in Lahore will lose everything. Every rupee. Every contract. Every breath of security I've provided."
Anna froze.
"You'll come," he whispered, "because you know I don't bluff."
And then, with cruel gentleness:
"You'll come because I'm going to teach you something no cage ever could."
She opened her mouth. Maybe to protest. Maybe to scream.
But he cut her off with a final sentence—low and lethal:
"You belong to me. And I will teach you how that feels in every city your body will remember."
Now Boarding…
The car arrived thirty minutes later.
Black. Armored. Silent.
She didn't pack. She wasn't allowed to.
The maids handed her a silk blindfold.
She didn't resist when they tied it.
She didn't speak when he buckled the restraints over her wrists inside the jet.
But her body?
Her body trembled.
Because whatever he was about to do next…
It wasn't punishment.
It was a ritual.
✦ Altitude: 39,000 feet.
✦ Destination: Everywhere she'd never forget.
✦ She was no longer running from him.
✦ She was being taken to be remembered by ruin.
The Ritual of Ruin
Valenhart's Private Jet — MidnightAltitude: 39,000 feetDestination: Everywhere she'd never forget.
Anna sat upright.
Strapped into her seat with sleek, black leather restraints — wrists bound gently to the armrests, ankles crossed and locked with velvet cords. Her legs parted beneath a custom slit-red gown. A blindfold covered her eyes, satin tight against her lashes.
She could smell him.
She could hear him — the faint clink of glass as he sipped scotch across from her.
He hadn't spoken since boarding.
Only one sentence at takeoff:
"You're going to learn the way a wife obeys." "And you're going to learn it everywhere."
Venice — The First Ritual
The jet landed in Venice just before sunrise.
They drove in silence to a cathedral-turned-private chamber — ancient, candlelit, black-marble floors. It was once a sanctuary. Now it was something else.
Anna stood nude in the center of the altar floor, wrapped in crimson rope, wrists behind her back, knees trembling, hair falling in waves down her spine.
Daimion circled her.
Slow. Intentional. A lion before the kill.
"This place belonged to a cardinal," he said, his voice dark silk. "He confessed his sins in Latin. I prefer actions."
He touched her with the tip of a riding crop. Thigh. Hip. Belly.
Never hitting.
Just teasing.
"Say you belong to me."
"No," she breathed.
The crop tapped her inner thigh. Sharp. Quick.
She gasped.
"Say it."
Her jaw clenched.
"No."
He smirked.
"Then I'll make your body say it."
He bent her over the altar. Fingers between her legs — two, then three, stroking slowly.
"Every time you deny me, I'll make you come harder."
And she did. Shaking. Sobbing.
Still saying no.
But her body screamed yes.
Istanbul — The Mirror Room
A glass mansion overlooking the Bosphorus.
A chamber of mirrors, floor to ceiling. No shadows to hide in.
He placed her on her knees.
Naked. Collared.
A leash cwas lipped to his belt.
"You don't understand yourself yet," he said. "But I do."
She looked down.
He tugged the leash hard.
Her head snapped up.
"Look at yourself."
He stood behind her, removed his belt, and slid the leather between her lips.
"Open."
She obeyed.
He used her mouth slowly, gripping her hair. Each thrust mirrored back at her — every tear, every shudder, reflected in infinite glass.
He came on her breasts.
Pulled her back by the hair.
"Now look," he said, whispering into her ear. "Look how ruined you are."
She sobbed.
But didn't look away.
Dubai — The Obedience Game
A penthouse above the clouds.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. The city glittered beneath them.
She wore only a black lace mask. Thigh-high silk. A bell in her hand.
He lounged in a leather chair like a king.
"Crawl."
She hesitated.
"If you speak without permission, I'll spank you. If you come without a command, I'll leave you unsatisfied for a week. If you hesitate again, I'll bind you for a day."
She crawled.
Each movement is slow.
Controlled.
Humiliation was written across her flushed chest.
He let her straddle him. Grind slowly. Tease. But she couldn't come.
Not yet.
"Do you want to come?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Beg."
She shook.
"Beg me to own you."
"Please, Daimion… own me. Use me. Break me."
His eyes flared. His hands gripped her hips. He thrust up once, hard.
"Good girl."
Tokyo — The Final Resistance
The final night was Tokyo.
A chamber built above a river shrine.
Black silk ropes suspended her from the ceiling — wrists bound overhead, ankles spread. Blindfolded. Mute. Trembling.
"You'll scream my name in ten languages by dawn," he said.
She whispered, "No…"
"You're mine in every language."
And then he began.
Hours.
Teasing. Denial. Tongue. Fingers. Cock. All in rhythm.
"Again," he whispered in Arabic.
"Louder," he commanded in French.
"Say it in Latin."
She fought him.
Until she couldn't anymore.
She came screaming his name in every language she could remember — until her knees gave out and the ropes held her up.
When the sun rose, her voice was gone.
But her breath still whispered:
"Yours."
He had built a ritual of ruin.And by the end, she didn't ask to be freed.She asked to be taken again