He Has Broken Her — Now He Wants Her to Choose Him
Daimion used:
Force
Fear
Pain
Denial
Ritual
He broke her resistance. He made her scream, beg, and submit. But he knows broken submission doesn't last.
A slave can be freed. But a woman who chooses to stay? She'll never leave.
So now… he backs away, not out of mercy, but to allow the illusion of freedom.
He creates space. Trust. Autonomy. He lets her remember what she sounds like when she isn't being dominated.
And when she starts missing him in the silence — That's when she's truly his.
Daimion is a man of ritual and refinement, not just violence. He doesn't just conquer; he curates. He studies. He adapts.
He's already proven that he can own Anna's body.
Now he wants to own her mind.
Her voluntary loyalty, not just forced obedience.
And he knows that power held too tightly will eventually be resented. So, like any master strategist, he releases his grip — not to lose her, but to let her cling to him instead.
He wants her to fall. Not because she's weak. But because he's made himself the only thing that feels real.
In Daimion's mind, Anna has become more than a possession.
She's an opponent he respects, a creature he created, and possibly—though he'll never say it aloud—the only thing in the world unpredictable enough to be interesting.
Her fire. Her stubbornness. Her silence.
These are no longer threats. They're a fascination.
By treating her with softness, he's observing: What will she do when she's not trapped?
And if she chooses to come to him?
That will mean more than any ritual. That will mean he wins on a level no one else ever could.
Guilt? Maybe. Love? Not Yet. But There's Something New
When Daimion sat behind the glass during the bath…
When he saw her cry without protest…
Something stirred.
He's not apologetic. He's not softened.
But he's curious about this ache in his chest — this thing that makes him want her smile more than her scream.
He's not falling in love. He doesn't even believe in that word.
But something in Anna — her ruin, her silence, her stubborn eyes — has become the one thing he cannot control.
So instead of chains, he offers comfort.
To see if he can seduce what no rope could bind.
The Long Seduction
Valenhart Manor – Morning After TokyoSilk sheets. Bare skin. No ropes. No orders.Just silence. Too warm. Too intimate.
Anna woke up naked beneath a cascade of ivory linens.
Her throat hurt.
Her legs ached.
Her wrists still bore faint red lines from the ropes.
But nothing restrained her now.
No chains. No cuffs.
She could get up. Walk away. Call for someone.
But she didn't.
Because she didn't know if she wanted to.
That was the real chain now.
She turned her head.
He was sitting in the leather chair by the balcony — shirt half-unbuttoned, reading something in French.
Calm. Collected.
Beautiful in that cruel, practiced way.
And for once—he wasn't watching her.
That scared her more than the ropes ever had.
The First Shift
He didn't speak when she stood.
Didn't look when she dressed slowly.
But when she walked toward the balcony—
He spoke.
"You've been quiet."
She paused.
"I was taught silence."
He looked up. Just once.
"I don't want silence now."
She frowned.
"You want obedience."
He closed the book.
"No. I want attention."
That rattled her.
Because it wasn't a command.
It was… a request.
The Slow Game Begins
Over the next two days—
He didn't touch her.
He let her move freely. Let her eat alone. Let her read in the solarium. Wander the garden.
No ropes. No orders.
Just… space.
But he was always there.
Watching from balconies.
Pouring her tea when she didn't expect it.
Placing books on her nightstand without comment.
Soft gestures. Intentional.
And the worst part?
She started waiting for them.
He brought her jasmine oil for her shoulders.
And didn't touch her once.
He handed her a piano sheet and said, "Play something that sounds like you."
When she asked what he meant, he only smiled.
"I already know what you sound like when you break." "Now I want to know what you sound like… when you don't."
Emotional Whispers
That night, he sat beside her.
No chains.
No collar.
Just candlelight and wine.
"Do you know why I didn't make you say 'I love you'?" he asked.
She turned her head, guarded.
"Because you don't?"
He laughed — a quiet, exhausted sound.
"Because love is useless if it isn't chosen."
He looked at her then. Really looked.
"Fear made you scream for me. Pain made you crawl. But desire?" "Desire makes you stay."
She didn't reply.
Didn't drink her wine.
But she didn't leave either.
He leaned in slightly.
Close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
"I've ruined you, Anna. But now I want to rebuild you."
Her breath hitched.
"Into what?"
His answer was a whisper:
"Into someone who chooses to be mine."
The Dangerous Comfort
She lay in his bed again that night.
No bindings.
No games.
He didn't fuck her.
Didn't even kiss her.
Just pulled the blanket over both of them.
His chest against her back.
His breath steady at her neck.
And in the dark—
She whispered:
"I don't know if I'm resisting… or falling."
He didn't smile.
Didn't reply.
He just kissed her shoulder—
And whispered: "Perfect."
He didn't need to force her anymore. Now she wondered what life meant… without his touch. Without his gaze. And that was the most dangerous power of all.
Why is he behaving this way?
Because Daimion has mastered domination. Now he's learning manipulative intimacy — the long game.
He's no longer trying to force Anna into submission.
He's trying to build a world where she begs to stay.
Where she says:
"I don't know if I'm resisting… or falling." And means it.
Because then?
She'll never leave. Not because she can't. But because she won't want to.
And that's the most dangerous power of all.
You Don't Cage Fire Without Bleeding
Zurich, Switzerland – Valenhart's Alpine Fortress Cold stone, thick air, and the kind of silence that doesn't protect. It suffocates.
Four Days of Silence
Anna hadn't been touched in four days.
Not kissed. Not claimed. Not tied. Not taken.
She had been watched—yes. Tested.Tamed with neglect.
Her body had been marked in past nights, brought to the edge of pleasure and left trembling, never granted release. But now… not even that.
No orders. No ropes. Just silence.
It wasn't mercy.
It was punishment.
Daimion had given her obedience, structure, pain, praise.
Now he gave her nothing.
And in its place?
Celeste.
Zurich, Switzerland – Valenhart's Alpine Fortress
Dusk—the hour of long shadows and longer memories.
The Return of Celeste
The sun was bleeding behind the Alps, casting a scarlet wound across the snow-draped peaks.
Inside the manor, gold light slipped down the marble walls like cooling metal. Shadows curled in the corners. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to whisper secrets.
Anna sat alone.
Barefoot.
Black silk robe knotted once at the waist. No jewelry. No armor.
Just silence.
A cooling cup of mint tea cupped in her hands, untouched. Her eyes were unreadable. Her spine, straight. Her breath… held.
She felt the shift before she heard it.
Jasmine.
And something darker underneath.
Like cold steel dust.
Like perfume left in a casket.
Then—heels.
Click.Click.Click.
The sound of arrival without apology.
Each step deliberate, predatory, echoing through the marble like a countdown.
Anna didn't turn.
She didn't have to.
She already knew.
Celeste Morreau had returned.
She entered like a queen returning to her throne—one that no one dared take, only borrow.
Draped in emerald silk, slit to the hip. Neck bare but for a diamond serpent wrapped tight around her throat, its eyes winking like it knew secrets no man had survived.
Hair pinned. Lips red. Skin pale as frostbite.
Eyes?
Deadly. Sharper than bone. Cooler than stone.
She didn't greet.
She assessed.
Her smile was surgical.
"So…" she murmured. "You're still here."
Her gaze drifted over Anna like she was inspecting a relic — pretty, fragile, temporary.
"I thought the little bride would've been discarded by now."
Anna's hand tightened around the teacup.
But her voice came even.
"What are you doing here?"
Celeste didn't answer at first. She walked past Anna — slow, arrogant, untouchable — trailing her fingers across the chaise, the mantel, the tea tray. Like she was reclaiming something that had once been hers.
She stopped by the untouched cup.
Picked it up.
Didn't sip.
Just stared down into it.
Amused.
"Business," she said lightly. "But Daimion and I always blend business with a little…"
She turned toward Anna. Smile sharpened like a blade.
"…nostalgia."
Anna's pulse flinched. The robe at her throat suddenly felt tighter. Her skin too visible.
She stood. Slow.
Don't flinch.
Celeste stepped closer.
Too close.
Her scent slid into Anna's breath — jasmine laced with something scorched and expensive.
Her voice dipped to a murmur.
"You do know he used to bring me here, don't you?"
She lifted one hand — a single fingertip grazing Anna's sleeve.
"This robe? I wore it once." "That fireplace? He bent me over it more than once." "That bed?" Her smile turned feral. "Was mine… before it became your prison."
Anna's throat locked.
She didn't step back—until she did.
Once.
But Celeste saw it.
And smiled.
The serpent around her neck glittered as if pleased.
Anna's voice came low. Final. Cold.
"What you had is dead."
Celeste chuckled — but it wasn't amusement. It was history laughing through her.
"You think you're his first obsession?"
She stepped forward again — casually.
Like it wasn't a challenge.
Like it was a fact.
"Darling…"
Her head tilted, like a mother explaining war to a child.
"He trains his wives the way generals breed dogs."
"Loyalty. Hunger. Blind devotion."
She let the silence hold for a moment.
Let it fester.
"And then…"
She smiled, sweet as cyanide.
"…a quiet bullet."
Anna's expression didn't move.
But inside, something shattered.
She could hear the words even before Celeste said them.
She tried not to believe them.
But something dark whispered back:
What if she's right?
The Chess Game
The air between them was a battlefield.
The fire behind Celeste hissed. The shadows deepened.
Neither woman blinked.
Anna's fingers were tight behind her back. Her pulse loud in her ears. But her voice?
Steel.
"He's not yours anymore," she said.
"Whatever game you're playing—it's over."
Celeste didn't flinch.
She tilted her head like a crow watching a child's funeral.
"Oh, sweetheart…"
She took one step toward the hearth, letting the flames catch her profile in gold.
"This was never a game."
"Daimion doesn't play with women. He reprograms them."
She turned slowly.
Face solemn.
"He taught you silence. Obedience. Heat."
"He taught me how to disappear."
Anna's brow twitched.
"Disappear?"
Celeste's smile vanished.
"He doesn't keep us, Anna."
"He doesn't love us."
"He shapes us into weapons. And when we cut too deep—he puts us down like dogs."
Anna said nothing.
Because part of her—
The part that remembered his silence. The night he didn't deny Celeste. The way he said You don't get to love me, Anna… You get to obey me…
—believed her.
But she raised her chin.
Fought it.
"You sound jealous."
Celeste actually laughed.
Genuinely.
Not bitter. Not fake.
"I'm free."
She turned away.
Anna added—soft but sharp:
"You're still waiting for him to kiss you like he means it."
That stopped Celeste.
She turned back around. Slower this time.
Didn't speak.
Just walked to the tea tray.
Poured herself a cup from the same pot Anna hadn't touched.
Didn't drink.
"You think what he gives you is special."
Her eyes darkened.
"But everything he does has been done before. To me. To the one before me. And before her."
Then she looked Anna in the eye.
Dead center.
"But you?"
Her voice dropped to a near-whisper.
"You're the first to beg for it."
Anna flinched.
Not visibly.
But inside?
She shattered in a way that only silence could catch.
Celeste saw it.
And smiled like she'd just won something.
"You think he's cruel now?" "Wait until he says he loves you."
She set the untouched cup down.
Turned.
And walked out.
Not with triumph.
Not with regret.
With certainty.
Like she'd already seen the end of Anna's story—
And knew how it would bleed.
The Betrayal
Zurich – Valenhart's Fortress, 2:19 A.M.No chains. No ropes. No commands. Just the sound of something dying inside her.
The fire in the hearth was dying.
Just embers now.
A faint orange glow casting flickers across stone and shadow. The walls loomed cold despite the warmth. The kind of cold that lives inside people.
Anna stood in front of the tall mirror near the bed, backlit by that dying fire. She wore a black lace robe — sheer, delicate, tied once at the waist, barely concealing the vulnerability beneath.
She wasn't dressed to tempt him. She was dressed to test herself. To stand there and not fall apart.
She heard the door open behind her.
No knock.
Of course.
He never knocked.
Daimion entered in silence.
Black coat draped over his shoulders like a shadow. His gloves still on. Hair slightly windblown. Snow still dusted the hem of his sleeves.
He looked like a god returning from war.
And for a moment—a cruel, stupid moment—her heart reacted.
Her breath hitched.
Like it always did when he filled the room.
Maybe he came to say sorry.Maybe he didn't sleep with her.Maybe I still matter…
He didn't even look at her.
Just walked past.
Toward the bar cart.
The sound of crystal — the soft clink of a decanter being lifted — filled the room.
He poured scotch.
Neat.
Of course.
Still no words.
Anna turned slowly.
Her voice broke the silence like ice cracking beneath weight.
"Where were you?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't even glance at her.
He sipped.
"You were with her."
Still nothing.
She took a step closer.
Bare feet on cold marble.
The hem of her robe kissed her calves with every breath.
"You fucked her."
Her voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The answer came in the silence.
The pause.
The deliberate sip of his drink.
The clink of glass was louder than anything she wanted to hear.
Her chest tightened.
Say no. Lie. Tell me it meant nothing. Tell me it was a move, not a choice.
But he didn't.
And that was her answer.
Her voice dropped, barely audible now.
"You used me."
He turned then.
At last.
His eyes met hers. And they were…
Empty. Cold. Practiced.
Like he'd rehearsed this.
Like he wasn't even speaking to a person—just a part of the structure he'd built.
"No," he said, flat as frost. "I trained you."
She blinked.
The tears didn't fall yet.
They just collected at the bottom of her lashes.
Not from heartbreak. Not from betrayal.
From humiliation.
All this time, I wasn't becoming a wife. I was becoming a tool.
He stepped forward. Just one slow stride.
"You forgot your place."
She stared at him.
Through him.
"I thought I mattered."
His eyes narrowed—just a fraction.
"You don't get to love me, Anna."
A long pause.
Long enough to hurt.
Long enough to brand.
"You get to obey me."
The tears broke then.
Silently.
Not sobs. Not pleas.
Just grief dripping down her face like the firelight flickering against the wall.
Her knees bent slightly. Not from weakness. From impact.
Like a body hit with too much force, trying not to collapse.
He didn't move.
Didn't offer a hand.
Didn't reach for her.
He just watched.
Like she was something once beautiful—
And now, no longer useful.
She took a step back.
Breath unsteady.
One hand against her stomach as if holding herself together from the inside out.
"Then leave."
Her voice shook, but it held.
She said it like a command.
He didn't argue.
He didn't beg.
He didn't flinch.
He turned. Glass still in hand.
And walked out.
The door clicked shut.
And the silence that followed?
It was louder than any slap. Colder than any punishment. And emptier than any chain.
She stood there.
Still.
Alone.
And finally—
She broke.
She stood in lace, asking for a reason to stay. He walked out with scotch and silence. And somewhere inside her— The last light went out