Chains of silk
987 Words
The halls of Sequilaa’s estate were too quiet.
Milantra’s bare feet padded against the cold marble floor as she was led deeper into the fortress. The men escorting her were silent, their gazes forward, their movements calculated. Not guards. Enforcers. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that didn’t hesitate to kill.
Her wrists ached, the zip ties biting into her skin. She twisted them slightly, testing for weakness. Nothing. The bindings had been cut, but the phantom sensation of restraint still lingered.
Her heart pounded, her mind racing through every possible way out. She wouldn’t stay here. She couldn’t.
The hallway stretched endlessly, dimly lit by golden sconces. Expensive paintings adorned the walls, and the air carried the faintest scent of cigar smoke and something sharper—gunpowder, perhaps. Everything about this place spoke of power. Control. A kingdom built on blood.
At the end of the hall, towering double doors stood open, revealing a room far too luxurious for a prisoner. A massive four-poster bed, velvet drapes, dim golden lighting—every inch of it was designed for comfort.
Milantra stepped inside hesitantly, her body tense. A gilded cage.
The guards didn’t say a word as they stepped back. One of them pulled a knife from his belt and with a sharp flick, sliced through the plastic binding her wrists.
She barely had time to rub the raw skin before she heard it.
The door clicked shut behind her.
She spun, heart hammering. Locked.
A surge of anger shot through her. She rushed to the handle, twisting it violently. Nothing. The solid oak door didn’t budge.
Her pulse pounded as her eyes swept the room for another way out. A window. A secret door. Anything. But the windows were reinforced glass, thick enough to withstand a storm. Even if she shattered them, the drop below was steep—a death sentence.
Trapped.
Milantra clenched her fists. Damn him. Damn them all.
“You’re wasting your energy.”
Her breath caught at the sound of the voice.
She hadn’t realized she wasn’t alone.
Sequilaa stood in the doorway of an adjoining room—his room.
The sight of him sent a wave of heat and fury crashing through her. He was too at ease, his posture relaxed, as if he were watching something mildly entertaining.
He wore black, as always. A shadow given form. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. A man who lived in luxury, but whose body spoke of violence.
Milantra’s fists clenched. How long had he been watching her?
“You bastard,” she spat, her voice laced with venom. “Let me out.”
Sequilaa tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “I don’t recall giving you permission to order me around.”
Milantra’s jaw tightened. He was playing with her.
“Why am I here?” she demanded. “You took me. You got what you wanted. Now what? You’re going to keep me locked up like some pet?”
Sequilaa’s lips curled slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze, but his next words sent a chill through her.
“I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.”
Her stomach twisted. He hadn’t decided?
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Then let me go.”
Sequilaa took a step forward. Then another. Unhurried. Confident.
“You think this is just about him?” he murmured.
Milantra held her ground, but her body tensed as he stepped closer. Too close. She could smell him—leather, smoke, something faintly musky. Intoxicating in a way that made her hate herself.
“He stole from me. He disrespected me,” Sequilaa continued. “But you, Milantra? You’re the real consequence.”
Her breath hitched. The real consequence.
She forced herself to glare at him. “You’re insane.”
Sequilaa smirked, his fingers trailing lightly along the curve of her jaw.
The touch was unexpected—gentle, even. But it carried a weight that sent a shiver down her spine.
She jerked her head away, breath unsteady. “You’re not going to break me.”
Sequilaa’s smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened.
“I don’t need to break you, Milantra.” His voice dropped lower, smoother, wrapping around her like silk. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing her ear as he whispered, “I only need to make you want to stay.”
The air thickened.
Milantra hated the way her skin burned where he had touched her. Hated the way her breath stuttered in her chest.
She clenched her fists. He wouldn’t win.
“You think you can just keep me here like some… some trophy?” she snapped.
Sequilaa chuckled, stepping back slightly, giving her space—but not freedom.
“Oh, Milantra,” he murmured, shaking his head as if she were amusingly naïve. “You’re not a trophy.”
She swallowed. “Then what am I?”
Sequilaa studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a silver chain.
Milantra barely had time to process what it was before he stepped behind her.
His hands were cold as they brushed against her skin, lifting her hair slightly. She tensed, her body rigid as he clasped the delicate chain around her throat.
A collar.
Not heavy. Not restrictive. Just a symbol.
A chill ran through her.
Sequilaa’s breath was warm against her neck. “You belong to me now.”
Milantra’s pulse thundered.
She wrenched away, fingers flying to the chain. It wasn’t locked. She could tear it off. But somehow, doing so felt like admitting defeat.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” she bit out.
Sequilaa watched her with dark amusement. “Then prove it.”
Her hands trembled around the chain.
Because deep down, she wasn’t sure if she could.
- Writer
