Page 59 of The Collector

The space between them crackled with tension, no longer soft like a breath but sharp like a match ready to ignite. Raven stood still, watching her, every nerve alive with anticipation. He didn't just wait—he braced himself, prepared to combust the moment she gave him her answer.

Heat surged through him. He felt the pull, the ache, the reckless need to dive headfirst into the fire they'd been circling for days. He didn't fear the burn. He craved it.

If she struck the match, he would meet the flame without hesitation. He would let it consume him—completely, unapologetically—with her. A silent forgiveness between them gave him the courage to continue.

Raven's gaze didn't waver, his voice steady as he spoke, "I'm sure Destiny talked to you about Claims and what it meant to have a member claim you."

Mynx leaned back slightly, her brow arching with quiet defiance. "She did," she said, her tone cool but not dismissive. "And I assume you remember what I told you in our first meeting—that I'll only commit to someone for love."

The words hung between them, charged and unflinching. His Butterfly wasn't just reminding him of a boundary—she was testing whether he'd truly heard her the first time. Whether he understood that her heart wasn't something to be possessed but earned.

Raven nodded slowly, the velvet box in his pocket suddenly heavier. Claiming her wasn't about power over the situation. Not anymore. It was about proving that what he felt for her wasn'tjust an obsession or about control over her—it was something more profound. Something real.

"I remember," he said quietly. "And I'm not asking for anything you haven't already given me in pieces. I'm asking for the chance to earn the rest."

She blinked. "You can't propose. We hardly know each other—and I'm not in love with you." She tried to pull away from him, pushing on his chest.

"I'm not proposing," he said softly, and she settled back into his arms.

From his coat pocket, he pulled a long velvet box and turned it towards her. At its center, a raven-shaped black diamond, wings outstretched, carved with brutal elegance. Smaller diamonds encircled it like stars around a moon—sharp, brilliant, impossible to ignore. It was a mark of protection. Of possession. Of promise.

"I want to claim you, Butterfly."

Mynx stepped back, her voice sharp with clarity. "Wait—what? I don't want to be claimed. I want to get to know you, to explore what we might have. Not be owned by you."

Her words cut through the tension like a blade, clean and unapologetic. She didn't flinch. She didn't soften the truth to spare Raven. She laid it bare.

Raven froze, the choker still in his hand, the weight of her resistance settling heavy in the space between them. She wasn't rejecting him—she was demanding something deeper. Something earned.

The room felt suddenly smaller.

Maybe he'd been wrong to do this so soon. Perhaps Mynx needed more time.

Mynx's breath stilled, her gaze falling to the choker gleaming in Raven's hands—a symbol of power, protection, and something far more intimate. There was nothing ambiguous about thegesture. It was deliberate. Charged. A declaration wrapped in velvet and steel.

"If you want the chance to see if what we feel is real," Raven said, his voice low and deliberate, "then I need to shield you—from the members, from my father, from the politics that would tear us apart before we've even begun. Claiming you gives us that chance. It's not about ownership. It's about sanctuary. Please… consider it. For me."

She looked up at him slowly, her eyes unreadable—layered with memory, hesitation, and the flicker of something deeper. And then, after a breathless pause, she whispered:

"All right."

Her smile was faint, but it carried the weight of surrender and defiance all at once.

"Let them look," she said. "Just make sure they never forget who I belong to. But most importantly, Raven… don't ever let me forget."

He stepped forward, reverent, the choker cradled in his hands like a vow.

"When you leave this room," he murmured, voice thick with promise, "no one—not even you—will ever question who you belong to again, Butterfly."

Raven didn't just claim her—he chose her. He saw her strength, her fire, her vulnerability, and stepped toward it without hesitation. He reached for her not to possess, but to stand beside her.

She didn't surrender. She accepted. She met Raven's gaze, matched his intensity, and chose him back.

Together, they didn't follow tradition. They rewrote it.

He fastened the choker around her neck, not as a mark of ownership, but as a vow. She wore it not as a symbol of submission, but as proof of her decision.

She didn't belong to him.