The "physical conditioning" with Marcus was less about fitness and more about survival. It took place in a stunning, glass-walled gym high in the tower, overlooking clouds. Marcus, in simple track pants and a t-shirt, put her through a gruelling assessment of strength, flexibility, and reflexes. He was a relentless yet fair taskmaster; his instructions were clipped, and his demonstrations were fluid and efficient. He taught her basic defensive stances, how to break a grip, and how to use leverage against a larger opponent. It was practical, empowering, and utterly exhausting.
"The body is the first fortress," Marcus said as she gasped for breath after a set of sprints on the treadmill. "Mr Valerian wishes it fortified."
Elena could only nod, sweat stinging her eyes. The schedule was a brutalizing machine, and she was its raw material. The art history tutor was a dry, older man who spoke of brushstrokes and symbolism as if they were state secrets. The etiquette consultant, Madame Evangeline, was a hawk-faced woman who corrected her posture, her handshake, the angle at which she held a teacup, with icy precision.
Elena moved through it all in a haze of fatigue and simmering resentment. The mandatory reading was the only respite; losing herself in the Gothic torment of Jane Eyre or the macabre verses of Poe felt perversely fitting. The financial journals were impenetrable.
Three days into this new regimen, a small, black velvet box appeared on the dressing table in her suite. There was no note.
With a sense of foreboding, she opened it.
Nestled on a bed of black satin was a collar. Not a necklace—a collar. It was made of sleek, supple black leather, about an inch wide, with a minimalist, polished chrome buckle at the back. At the centre front was a small, discreet plate, also in chrome, engraved with a single, stylized caduceus—the medical symbol of two serpents entwined around a winged staff.
It was beautiful in a severe, unsettling way. And it was clearly meant for her.
She didn't touch it. She left it in the box and went to her afternoon finance briefing, trying to ignore its presence.
That evening, Lionel summoned her before dinner. He stood in the study, the fire casting long shadows. The velvet box was open on his desk.
"You haven't worn it," he observed.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice tight.
"A safety precaution," he said, picking up the collar. The leather looked fragile in his large hands. "The medical symbol provides a plausible, public reason for its presence, should anyone ask. It signifies you have a condition requiring monitoring."
"And what does it really signify?" she whispered.
He met her gaze. "It contains a GPS locator of military-grade precision and a subcutaneous bio-monitor linked to my security network: your heart rate, cortisol levels, and body temperature. If you are in distress or being moved against your will, I will know. Instantly."
The cold clarity of it was more shocking than a lie. He was tagging her like an asset. "I'm not a piece of equipment."
"You are a valuable investment in a dangerous environment," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for sentiment. "This is not a negotiation, Elena. Wearing it is a condition of your movement outside this tower. Refusal constitutes a breach of the security protocols outlined in your contract."
The threat was unspoken but clear. Breach meant financial ruin. It meant failure.
He held the collar out to her. "It is for your protection as much as my assurance. The world I move in has teeth you have not yet seen."
She stared at the loop of black leather. A shackle. A tether. But also, a horrifying thought whispered: in a world where he snarled with golden eyes and moved like a ghost, where silver bullets were real… was it also a lifeline? If something happened, he would know. He would come. The man who had snarled at his enemies would be snarling for her.
The duality of it—the utter loss of freedom and the promise of fierce, absolute protection—was maddening.
With hands that trembled only slightly now, a testament to her hardening resolve, she took the collar from him. The leather was cool and smooth. She unfastened the chrome buckle.
Lionel watched, his expression unreadable.
She lifted her hair and brought the collar around her throat. The fit was perfect, snug but not tight. She fumbled for a moment with the buckle at the nape of her neck before it clicked into place with a soft, final sound.
The sensation was immediate. A slight, constant weight. A cool circle against her skin. She felt branded. Owned.
But as her fingers dropped away, she also felt a bizarre, shameful sense of… security. The city, his world, the unseen threats—they were still out there. But now, she was marked. She was connected. She was, for better or worse, under his aegis.
She looked at him, the leather a dark band against her pale throat. "Happy?"
He stepped closer, his eyes tracing the line of the collar. His gaze was intense, assessing. He reached out, and she flinched, but he only adjusted the front medical plate a millimetre, centring it perfectly. His fingers brushed her skin. Cold.
"It suits you," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice she couldn't decipher. Not triumph. Something closer to… satisfaction. "Now you are ready."
Ready for what? she didn't dare ask. The collar was in place. The first, most visible rule of her new existence had been fastened. She was his, and now, the whole world—or at least his world—would be able to see it.