Zion stood at the gates of hell.
Only, it looked like a mansion. Glass, steel, and shadows. Everything about it screamed power. And Rayven.
"This isn't your home," Zion muttered as the black car pulled away behind him.
"It is now," came the smooth voice behind him.
Rayven's hand grazed his back, just enough to remind him—he was no longer free.
Inside, everything was clinical. Rich. Soulless.
"You'll sleep upstairs. Last room on the right. Don't lock the door."
"Excuse me?" Zion's voice cracked like thunder.
Rayven turned, that infuriating smirk on his lips. "I paid for access. Don't make me collect."
Zion balled his fists. "You think money gives you rights over me?"
"No," Rayven said quietly. "Your silence did."
Zion's breath hitched. He hated that Rayven remembered.
That night. That kiss. That broken promise.
"I won't be your toy, Rayven."
Rayven stepped closer, grabbed Zion's chin with a gentleness that stung more than violence.
"You're not a toy," he said. "You're a possession."
"Screw you."
Rayven's eyes darkened. "Later. For now, get cleaned up. Dinner's in thirty minutes. And Zion—"
He tossed something onto the bed.
A golden chain. Thin, elegant. Like a collar.
"Wear that."
Zion stared at it like it was poison.
Rayven smiled. "It matches the cuffs I'll use next."