Rein was still frozen.
His lips tingled. His skin was hot. His brain, meanwhile, had completely shut down somewhere between "I'll wait until it's willing" and "You taste like mine."
Asmodra tilted her head slightly, examining him like a jeweler inspecting a rare, trembling gem.
"You didn't push me away," she murmured.
"You surprised me," Rein snapped, voice cracking. "That wasn't consent."
Her eyes narrowed a hair.
Not offended—amused. "You're right," she said. "Consent matters."
She touched his chest with a single fingertip.
"I'll earn it. I always earn what I take."
Then her hand slid lower.
Rein caught her wrist.
"Don't."
She blinked.
Then smiled, gently pulling away. "Not yet, then."
He released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
She stepped back, then snapped her fingers once.
The silk robes he still held rose into the air, unfolding and spinning like puppets on invisible strings.
"Now," she said, "stand still."
Rein looked at her.
At the floating robe. At the wall of living silk pulsing faintly behind him.
"I'll dress myself."
"You could try," she said pleasantly. "But the robes are bound to my will. And you look far too unbalanced to wrap them properly."
He glared. "I've wrapped hundreds of herbs."
"This is a cock wrap, not feverleaf twine."
He blinked. "A what?"
Too late.
The first layer of silk wound around his thigh with a snap, coiling like a smooth serpent. He grabbed for it, tried to unwrap it, but another layer slid over his shoulder and across his back, binding his arms in place.
"What the hell is this?!"
"I call it the Veil of Reclamation," Asmodra said, circling him. "It's worn by men who've just been claimed."
"I'm not your prize!"
"You're not." Her voice dipped. "You're my reward."
The silk tightened around his chest—not painful, but intimate, like being held from all sides by heat and velvet.
The fabric adjusted itself into place with unnatural precision, folding into a high-collared tunic of deep crimson with black trim, etched with delicate flame patterns.
A belt of soft leather cinched at his waist.
A sash dropped low across his hips.
And finally, a long drape of translucent silk fell behind him like a cape.
He looked down at himself, stunned.
It fit perfectly. It felt amazing.
Lightweight. Luxurious.
Seductively dangerous.
He hated it.
"It looks good," Asmodra said, circling him again. "But it's missing something."
She snapped again.
A small mirror floated into view.
Rein's eyes widened.
A fine, slender collar hovered next to it—jet black, with a single crimson gem shaped like a teardrop.
"No."
She raised a brow. "It's symbolic."
"I'm not wearing a damn leash."
"I wore a crown for three hundred years. You can manage a neck ornament."
He swatted it away.
It froze midair.
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then whispered, "You don't understand what you are."
"Oh, I do," he muttered. "I'm your obsession."
"No," she said.
Her voice was quiet now.
"You're my salvation."
He didn't know what to say to that.
So he didn't.
He turned away, the weight of silk dragging lightly behind him, as if reminding him of what he'd just become.
Not a prisoner.
Not yet.
But no longer free.