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“No.” She’ll only ever be as deeply humiliated as I let her. Being compared to livestock isn’t my purpose. This branding means another thing entirely. “You’re mine. There’s a difference.”

“I shouldn’t be into this.” Her fingers claw at the floor beneath her. “I don’t even know you. You fucking bought me.”

“True.” I move the branding iron out of her sight, squatting next to her. “It changes nothing. I’ll never have a heart. You’ll always be drawn to the darkness. We were meant to find each other. We’re fucked-up and twisted, and wrong. Yet you can’t help but think I’m the right person for you.”

“You’re going to brand me, then.” Hope fills her eyes. My unhinged monologue did that to her. “Because I’m yours. Forever.”

“I can’t imagine a life without you any more than I can imagine one without air.”

Self-preservation screams at me for these things I’m telling her. I would’ve been better off if I had sent her to an undisclosed location. Destroyed the monstrosity my ancestors started without this mess, without ruining everything for both of us.

Impossible.

I watch her, her wide eyes and blood and tear-stained cheeks. Obsession and longing are written all over her face.

I don’t know how to love her. I only know how to never let her go.

“You’re serious.” She blows out a breath, turning, still on her hands and knees, until we face each other. “You’re actually serious.”

“I always am. I’m keeping you.” I get up and dip the branding iron a second time into the fire, where the backing with my initials on it heats up. “I’m marking you.”

Her gaze follows my movements. Her chin wobbles. “Don’t leave me in the cell after that. Please. This, us , it isn’t meaningless.”

“You’ll be chained again.” I’m being brutally honest. I’ll never lie to her. “Never in the cell, though.”

A promise like that should never put a smile on a person’s face.

Unless, of course, it’s my person. “Okay.”

That’s the last thing she says before I lift the branding iron and lower it to her left shoulder blade.

Ear-piercing screams. Shaking body.

She doesn’t fall to the floor. She’ll never fall when I’m here to catch her. I throw the branding iron into the fire. Wrap an arm around her middle and hug her to my body.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her dark eyes catching mine, glistening with tears. “Thank you.”

Before I get to tell her she’s welcome, Ophelia passes out.

I cradle her in my lap, stroking her cheeks and running my fingers through her hair.

She’s there, unmoving.

Wearing my mark on her back.

My initials on her skin.

She’s never getting away from me.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine .

The word plays on repeat in my head as I get up and carry her to our bedroom.

I should take her to a room where I have a first-aid kit within reach. Like the kitchen or the guest bathroom on the main floor. The two other the bathrooms on the second one.

But branding her means something to me. It symbolizes our eternal bond. A promise. A vow that only happens once.

Unlike the initiation, this is one ritual I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.

Our bedroom it is.

Ophelia’s weight is light and welcomed in my arms on the way up. I regret losing that connection when I place her face down on the bed. Her hair, I have to touch it. Thread my fingers through it. So I do, before I gently tuck it away from her face and new scar.

God, her dried tears are beautiful.

Her mangled skin even more so. Unable to stay away, I press my lips to her new scar, running my tongue along it. Tasting her. Comforting her while she’s blacked out.

Leaving her here isn’t right. We both could use a bath, so that’s where we go. Once the tub is full and I make sure the water isn’t too hot, I settle both of us in here like I did the last time she was passed out.

I squirt liquid soap on my hand and run it over her body, her breasts. Between her thighs. Her dark hair is softer by the time I’m done shampooing and conditioning it. I take great care not to touch her new wound as I clean myself up after her.

Back on the bed. I’m not at her side for less than a minute before I return with the first-aid kit. I clean her with the antibiotic ointment and bandage her.

I stay in place, absorbing her beauty. This moment.

Inhaling her scent, I run my fingertips along the curve of her back. Her skin prickles wherever I touch her. I allow myself to believe that, on a deeper level, she’s aware. That she’s comforted by it even though her eyes are closed.

“Good girl.” I kiss the small of her back, right above her crack.

The clothes come next. The softest cotton long-sleeve T-shirt and a pair of sleep pants from her closet are what I choose for her, both gray. Then I pull on a dark blue T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

I need to review some things, and there’s no way I’m leaving her here by herself.

She won’t wake up to a cold bed.

I’m sickened by the sweet thought.

I listen to it, scooping Ophelia in my arms and taking her to the den.

With me.

Rowan: The target’s secure. Texts, movements, behavior are the same—nothing new to report.

The message from the private investigator I flew out to Ibiza soothes me. I place the phone down, raising my gaze to Ophelia.

Peaceful, sleeping Ophelia.

My fingers tap on the desk in my den, mirroring the rhythm of the rain as it lands on the windows.

The sight of her curled up on the couch, her back to me, tugs at my cold heart.

Detaching myself from her, I return to the task at hand.

The files that I have spread across my desk. I removed them from my safe earlier, right after I settled Ophelia on the couch.

Then I got down to business.

My personal business.

Starting with my son.

Topher had been sticking to his routine, according to my investigator. There haven’t been any more pitiful messages or calls since our last conversation.

Oliver sent me photos of him and Camden from their vacation, much to my disgust. I have never taken a selfie in my life. I don’t care to have Oliver’s on my phone. But I pretended to be content and supportive.

Another layer of my plan.

Putting up a charade will serve me in the long run.

When I kill them. Make them disappear.

Then I act as if I’m concerned about their well-being.

As if we were more than just business partners, and I’m personally invested in bringing them home.

What about Topher? His fate remains undecided.

He’s a monster. He was also drunk when he talked to me.

I’ll try to talk to Topher once Oliver and Camden are out of the picture. Or I could end him too. Depends on him.

Everyone’s disposable.

My hand clenches into a fist.

Everyone but her.

The folders in front of me contain names, photos, and extortion material. Over the last six months, I’ve been gathering the ones I’ll need in case shit hits the fan.

One can never be too careful.

I might not have murdered anyone in a long time.

But I’m not new to this . To keeping people—as in myself—out of prison using my connections. And that’s before I delve into actual law practice.

“Hmph.”

My head whips to the source of the sound. To Ophelia.

The hold she has on me is concerning. How, with a simple hmph and a shift of her body, she snatches my attention. Fully. Completely.

Obsessively.

“Pet.”

If I get up, if I cross the room and cradle her in my arms, it’s game over. She’s already halfway there, to ruling over my heart.

Another tug of the invisible rope, and she’ll have an edge over me.

Not yet.

I stay seated. Fold my hands on my lap.

And watch her.