The next morning, Serena didn't flinch when she saw the bruised flush on her bottom lip in the mirror.
She touched it once, gently, and smiled.
Because it hadn't been pain.
It had been power.
His.
Hers.
Shared.
She expected him to summon her again.
He didn't.
Hours passed. Then a full day. Then two.
No messages. No lessons. No voice in her ear telling her what to do, how to breathe, when to kneel.
And it drove her mad.
Not with panic.
With want.
With the sense that she was finally standing on the edge of something sharp—and he was daring her to jump.
By day three, she made her move.
She entered the East Wing unannounced.
The guards didn't stop her. Not anymore.
She didn't knock on the library door.
She walked in.
And found him seated behind a carved desk, reading a set of coded dispatches.
He didn't look up.
"Breaking Rule One," he said flatly. "No announcement. No invitation."
She stepped forward.
"I needed to see you."
"You needed," he echoed, finally lifting his gaze. "Not obeyed."
She swallowed. "I thought—after what happened—"
He stood.
And silence dropped like a guillotine.
"Remove the collar," he said quietly.
Her heart tripped.
She reached up—
"No," he snapped. "Not here."
She blinked. "Where?"
"In the West Wing. Ten minutes. And if you're late—don't come at all."
Ten minutes later, she opened the door to a room she hadn't seen before.
It was colder than the others. Sparse. No fire. Stone walls and a single chair at the center.
And him.
Standing in front of the chair, arms behind his back, expression unreadable.
"Shut the door."
She did.
He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
She hesitated.
Then obeyed.
He walked behind her slowly.
"You entered without permission."
"I—"
"You spoke without being addressed."
"I thought—"
"You thought you had earned intimacy. You haven't."
Her hands clenched on her lap.
He leaned in close, his mouth at her ear.
"So now, you'll learn what disobedience earns you."
From his pocket, he drew something small. Velvet black. Familiar.
Her collar.
He held it up.
"You don't get this back tonight."
A pause.
"You'll beg for it."
Her throat tightened.
He reached out—and finally, finally—touched her.
Not a kiss.
Not a caress.
His hand gripped her jaw. Firm. Possessive.
Tilting her head up to meet his eyes.
"You want punishment?" he asked.
She nodded.
"You'll speak when I allow it."
She gritted her teeth. Held still.
He circled her slowly.
Then said, "Kneel."
She did.
But not because he said it.
Because her body craved it.
He didn't strike her.
Didn't humiliate her.
He whispered commands.
Held her still.
Told her exactly how long to stay on her knees.
Exactly how she was not allowed to move.
Exactly how still she had to breathe—until the tension became unbearable.
And then he left her there.
Sweating. Shaking. Wanting.
Not punished.
Ruined.
By the time he returned, her knees were raw. Her pride was ragged.
And her silence had become a scream inside her chest.
He walked in, slow and calm, and knelt in front of her.
"You've learned something," he said softly.
She looked up at him, eyes blazing. "That I hate needing you this much."
He touched her face—gently, this time.
"No," he whispered. "You've learned that you were always mine. Even before you admitted it."
And then—
He kissed her again.
Slower.
Deeper.
Like the punishment wasn't over—just beginning.
Later that night, she returned to her room.
Exhausted.
Exhilarated.
And not alone.
Waiting for her was a tall figure in pale rose silks and a sly smile:
A woman with soft brown eyes, fierce posture, and unmistakable royal blood.
"Hello," she said with a graceful tilt of her head. "I'm Princess Elara. Damián's cousin. I heard there's a revolution happening in this palace. Thought I'd join it."
Serena blinked.
And for the first time… she laughed.