16. The Collar
SIXTEEN
The Collar
I wake to an empty bed.
The sheets beside me are cold, which means Sebastian has been gone for a while. I lie still, cataloging the aches in my body. The soreness between my legs, the bruises on my hips where his fingers dug in, the tender spot on my shoulder where he bit me hard enough to leave marks.
Evidence. Proof that last night happened. That the Bennett call happened. That I broke down and let my captor hold me while I cried.
The memory makes something cold settle in my stomach. I let him see me weak. Let him comfort me. Let myself lean into him like he was something other than the man who bought me.
I won't make that mistake again.
I push myself out of bed and find clothes. The silk and tailored fabric Sebastian provides, expensive things that feel like costumes for a role I never auditioned for. Day ten. Ten days down. Three hundred and fifty-five to go.
I'm counting.
Sebastian isn't in the bathroom or the kitchen. I find him in his office, standing at the window with coffee in hand and an expression I can't read. On his desk sits a box I haven't seen before. Black velvet, larger than the ones that held my bracelet and necklace.
"It arrived this morning." He doesn't turn from the window. "Something I commissioned before you signed the contract."
Before I signed. He had this made before he even knew if I'd agree. The presumption of it, the absolute certainty that he'd acquire me one way or another, makes my jaw tighten.
"What is it?”
"See for yourself."
I approach the desk. The box sits there like a threat. My fingers hesitate on the velvet, then I force myself to lift the lid.
The collar is beautiful.
Delicate gold filigree, intricate as lacework, designed to rest against the hollow of a throat like jewelry.
A compass rose sits at the center. The same design as the bracelet on my wrist, the necklace at my throat, the tattoo over his heart.
But worked into the filigree around it are other shapes.
A crescent moon. A single star. Patterns that form constellations.
"Cygnus. Lyra. Aquila." Sebastian has moved behind me, close enough for his heat to reach me. "The Summer Triangle. Three stars that only appear together for part of the year, but when they do, they're the brightest things in the northern sky."
"Why those."
"Because separately, they're just stars. Together, they're something else." His hand settles on my shoulder. "That's what I hoped we might become."
Hoped. Past tense, present desire. Like ten days of captivity should have transformed me into someone eager to wear his ownership around my throat.
I close the box.
"No."
His hand stills on my shoulder. "I'm not asking you to wear it now. It's for later. When?—"
"There is no later." I step away from him, putting distance between us. "There's eleven months and twenty days. Then I'm done. Then I walk away and you find someone else to put in your collar."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
"The other women at Obsidian?—"
"Are not me." I turn to face him. "I don't know their stories.
I don't know if they chose their collars or if they tell themselves they chose because the alternative is admitting what they really are.
But I know what I am. I'm here because my brother's gambling debts gave you leverage. That's it. That's all this is."
"And what happens between us. The playroom. Last night."
"Last night was a mistake." The words come out flat. Hard. "I was upset about Bennett. I let you comfort me. That won't happen again."
Something moves behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or hurt, quickly buried beneath ice.
"A mistake."
"I'm your contracted companion for a year. My body responds to you because of chemicals you engineered to make it respond. That's not connection. That's biology. The collar doesn't change that."
He's quiet for a long moment. The calculations happen behind his eyes.
"The dinner," he says finally. "In twelve days. You'll attend."
"No."
"That wasn't a request."
"I don't care what it was." My walls go up, brick by brick. "You want to parade me in front of your associates. You want Carlo Moreno, the man who would have broken me, to see me on your arm. That's not about protecting me. That's about your pride."
"It's about strategy."
"Explain the strategy, then." I cross my arms. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you want to taunt a dangerous man by waving something he wants in his face."
"If you attend, composed and confident at my side, it sends a message that you're not a pressure point. That you're?—"
"That's backwards." I cut him off. "If I look happy to be there, willing to be yours, that makes me more valuable. That makes me a target. If Carlo sees someone you care about, someone you'd protect, he knows exactly how to hurt you."
Sebastian's jaw tightens.
"If you want me to not be a pressure point," I continue, "then I should look like exactly what I am. A contracted companion. Someone you acquired for convenience, not affection. Someone you'd replace without a second thought if she became inconvenient."
"That's not?—"
"That's the truth." I hold his gaze. "And Carlo should see the truth.
He should see a woman who's there because she's contractually obligated, not because she wants to be.
Cold. Professional. Barely tolerating her circumstances.
That's the message that protects both of us.
That I don't matter enough to be leverage. "
He's silent for a long moment. Turning it over, looking for the flaw in my logic.
He won't find one, because there isn't one.
"You're suggesting you attend as an unwilling participant."
"I’m an unwilling participant." I gesture at the collar box. "You want me to pretend otherwise. To smile and defer and signal that I've chosen this. But that's the most dangerous thing I could do. That tells Carlo I have value to you. That tells him taking me would hurt you."
"And if you're cold and distant."
"Then I'm a contract you're fulfilling. An arrangement. Business." I shrug. "Carlo understands business. What he exploits is emotion. Don't give him emotion and he has nothing to work with."
The silence stretches. Sebastian moves to his desk, picks up the collar box, stares at it.
"I bought this because I hoped—" He stops. Sets the box in a drawer. Closes it. "It doesn't matter what I hoped."
"No. It doesn't."
He looks at me, and his expression has gone carefully blank. The ice is back, thicker than before. Whatever he was hoping for when he showed me that collar, he's burying it now.
"The dinner discussion can wait," he says. "I need to consider your... perspective."
"It's not a perspective. It's logic."
"It's your logic." His voice has gone cold. Professional. "I'll consider whether it aligns with mine."
He sits at his desk. Opens his laptop. Dismissal.
I should leave. Should go to my room and let this cold distance become the new normal.
Instead I say, "The collar is beautiful. The craftsmanship. The stars. It's a beautiful thing."
He doesn't look up. "But."
"But it's for someone who wants to wear it. That's not me. It will never be me."
His fingers pause on the keyboard.
"You're very certain about what you'll never want."
"I'm certain about what this is." I move toward the door.
"A contract. An arrangement. Eleven months and twenty days of my body in exchange for my brother's debt.
When it ends, I leave. You find someone else to wear your collar and look at you the way you want to be looked at. That's the deal. That's all this is."
"And if I want more than the deal."
I stop at the door. Look back at him.
"Then you should have negotiated for more before I signed."
I leave him sitting at his desk with his laptop and his collar in the drawer and whatever hopes I just destroyed.
Three hundred and fifty-five days.
I'll count every single one.
He doesn't come to dinner.
One of the staff brings food to my room with a message that Mr. York is working late. The formality of it is appropriate. That's what this is. An arrangement. Staff delivering meals. Schedules maintained. Nothing personal.
I eat alone. The food is excellent. I don't taste it.
After dinner, I go to the library. Pull a book from the shelf at random. Sit in the chair by the window and pretend to read while rain streaks down the glass.
The collar. The stars. The way he looked when I told him no.
I don't care that I hurt him. I can't afford to care. The moment I start caring about his feelings is the moment this becomes something other than survival, and survival is all I have.
Eleven months and twenty days.
I turn a page I haven't read.
Day ten.
I'm counting.