The confrontation with Isabella had left a cold residue in the air, a reminder that the Thorne Estate was less a home and more a battlefield of egos. Dante felt the shift in Elian—a flickering of the boy's legendary defiance. To Dante, defiance was a spark that needed to be shielded from others, but stoked by him alone.
He didn't take Elian back to the common areas. He led him straight to the sanctuary of the observatory, the elevator hum sounding like a funeral dirge for Elian's lingering sense of independence. When the doors slid open, the afternoon sun was hitting the glass dome at an angle that turned the room into a cage of light and shadow.
Dante shucked his suit jacket, tossing it onto the leather sofa. He looked at Elian, who stood by the massive telescope, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cashmere trousers.
"You're thinking about what she said," Dante stated. It wasn't a question.
"She called me a target, Dante," Elian said, turning around. His silver eyes were clouded. "She said I'm the reason you'll end up back in the water. I didn't pull you out just to be the weight that sinks you."
The Lesson Begins
Dante's expression didn't soften. If anything, it turned to stone. He walked toward Elian, his boots thudding rhythmically on the marble. "Isabella is a viper. She speaks in venom because it's the only language she knows. But she was right about one thing."
He stopped inches from Elian, his presence overwhelming. "You are a target. Because you are the only thing in this world I wouldn't trade for a province. And in this house, if you're going to be a target, you need to learn how to belong to the archer."
Dante reached out and gripped the back of Elian's neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind his ear. "I told you there were rules. Yesterday, you were a guest. Today, after the way you stood up to my sister... today you need to be reminded of your place."
"And what is my place?" Elian challenged, his chin lifting.
Dante leaned down, his voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive whisper. "In this room, your place is beneath me. Your place is as the King's prize. And a prize doesn't worry about wars. A prize only worries about pleasing its owner."
The Correction
Dante turned Elian around and forced him onto his knees in the center of the room. The marble was cold against Elian's skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the man standing over him.
"Stay," Dante commanded.
He walked to a lacquered cabinet and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. When he returned, he held a collar—not a heavy leather thing, but a delicate, shimmering band of white gold, inset with a single, brilliant blue sapphire that matched the color of the hottest stars.
"This is the Thorne crest," Dante said, showing him the engraving on the inside of the band. "Anyone who sees this on you will know that to touch you is to declare war on me. But wearing it means you accept the collar's weight."
Elian looked up, his breath hitching. The "role-play" was deepening, the lines between safety and possession blurring into something intoxicating. "You want to mark me."
"I want to claim you," Dante corrected. He knelt behind Elian, his large hands steady as he wrapped the gold around Elian's neck. The click of the clasp sounded like a finality, a lock turning on Elian's old life.
The King's Touch
Dante didn't let him get up. He sat on the floor behind him, pulling Elian's back against his chest. He began to run his fingers over the gold band, his touch light but territorial.
"Now," Dante murmured, his mouth hovering near Elian's ear. "Tell me the rule you forgot this morning."
Elian swallowed hard, the metal cool against his throat. "I... I spoke without being invited. I let Isabella get under my skin."
"Correct," Dante whispered. He slid his hands under Elian's sweater, his palms flat against the boy's stomach, pulling him closer until there was no air between them. "And what is the penalty for a Subject who forgets their place?"
Elian leaned his head back against Dante's shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut. The dominance was a drug, a way to forget the looming war and the blood on the horizon. "Whatever the King decides."
Dante's hands moved lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Elian's trousers. He began to touch Elian with a slow, agonizingly thorough possession, his kisses moving from Elian's ear to the sensitive cord of his neck.
"I'm going to spend the next hour reminding you why you belong here," Dante growled, his teeth grazing Elian's shoulder. "I'm going to make you forget the village. I'm going to make you forget Isabella. All you're going to know is my name and the way your body responds to my hand."
The Surrender
The making out was intense—a collision of teeth and desperation. Dante moved Elian until he was draped across the King's lap, his bound wrists (once again restricted by the silk) resting on Dante's broad shoulders.
Dante explored every inch of Elian's skin as if he were mapping a new territory. He was gentle where the skin was soft and firm where he wanted to leave a mark. Every time Elian tried to speak, Dante silenced him with a kiss that tasted of obsession.
"You're my North Star, Elian," Dante whispered against his skin, his hand tightening possessively. "And tonight, I'm going to follow you into the dark."
The observatory was silent, save for the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the city that meant nothing to them in that moment. High above, the stars Elian loved so much were just beginning to peek through the twilight, indifferent to the power plays of men, yet witnessing the total surrender of a boy who had found his home in the arms of a monster.