The blindfold pressed against Adrian's eyes until the darkness felt alive, pulsing with every beat of his heart. The dagger remained in his trembling hand, heavy, unbearable, as though it carried within it the weight of choice, of damnation itself.
Selene's voice hovered near, though at times it seemed to echo from all directions. "Do you feel it? That weight in your palm is not metal, Adrian—it is truth. The truth you have fled, the truth you drowned in pleasure, the truth you now hold."
His lips parted, but no sound came. His throat was dry as ash.
She caressed his wrist, guiding the blade closer to his skin. A shallow line of pain bloomed across his flesh. He gasped, more from the intimacy of the act than from the cut itself.
Selene's breath touched his ear. "Pain is not the enemy. It is the reminder that you are real, that you still possess something to offer." Her voice deepened, became almost solemn. "The first lesson, Adrian: your will is not your own. It never was. Every choice you thought was yours was hunger disguised as freedom. And hunger has always ruled you."
Her words pierced him sharper than the blade. He wanted to deny her, to spit back some defiance, but his body betrayed him. He remembered the ballroom, the kisses, the jealous stares, the shame—and yet, even in his shame, he had desired more. Always more.
"I am weak," he muttered, ashamed.
Selene smiled in the darkness. "Weakness is a beginning. Strength built upon lies is worthless. Weakness, confessed, becomes power."
She pulled the dagger from his grasp and set it aside. The sound of steel against wood rang in his ears. Then her hands, cool and deliberate, pressed against his chest. He felt her weight upon him, her presence suffocating yet magnetic.
"You asked me to teach you," she whispered, her lips grazing his jaw. "Then you must surrender not only your body, but your will. From this night forth, you no longer belong to Adrian—you belong to me."
His breath came ragged, torn between terror and longing. "And if I refuse?"
Her fingers tightened on his throat, firm but not crushing. "Then you will crawl back to your mirrors, your shame, your fragments of self. And you will waste away until you envy the dead. But if you yield—" her grip softened, almost tender now—"then you will be remade into something greater than yourself. A man freed from the pretense of choice."
Adrian's heart thundered. The darkness was a furnace, the air thick with her perfume, her dominance. And in that moment, he understood the abyss: to resist was torment, but to yield was ruin. Both paths led to suffering—but only one promised transcendence.
"I…" He swallowed hard, his body trembling. "I yield."
Selene's lips curved in triumph. She untied the blindfold with deliberate slowness. Candlelight flooded back into his eyes.
Her face was inches from his, radiant in shadow, eyes burning with the cold fire of possession. "Good," she said simply. "You are mine now."
She pressed her mouth against his, not as lover to beloved, but as sovereign to subject. The kiss was an oath, a seal of chains. Adrian responded helplessly, consumed by the fire of surrender.
When she pulled back, her smile was victorious, merciless. "The ritual is not complete. You must prove your surrender."
From the table she lifted the chalice again and drank, then offered it to him. The wine stung his lips, sharp and bitter. He drank, though his stomach rebelled, though his spirit recoiled. It was not wine—it was covenant.
Selene traced her finger along the cut she had made on his wrist, smearing the bead of blood. She held it up before his eyes. "This is the mark of your rebirth. The second lesson: suffering binds deeper than pleasure."
Adrian's gaze blurred. He was drowning, yet he clung to her voice as if it were lifeline and anchor both.
"Now rest," she commanded, her tone suddenly softer. "Tomorrow you will see the world differently. Tomorrow, you will know who you are."
He collapsed into her arms, drained, trembling. She cradled him, not as a lover but as one who had captured prey and now soothed it into obedience.
But beyond Selene's chamber, the estate stirred.
Cassia noticed first. She stood in the hallway, her crimson gown glinting in the lamplight, tapping her nails against the banister. "Where has he gone?" she murmured, irritation flickering into her eyes.
Liora, still raw from her humiliation, answered bitterly: "To her. You know it."
Althea's voice was low, worried: "If Selene has taken him, then he is already lost."
Cassia smirked, though unease tugged at her expression. "Lost? Or claimed?"
They exchanged glances heavy with suspicion. The game was shifting, the board rearranging itself around Adrian's absence. And in the silence that followed, each woman knew: Selene had made her move.
And none of them could afford to remain idle.