Ravage’s dominance was not a bludgeon, but a silken cord, expertly woven and undeniably strong. It was in the way his gaze would drift to Elara, a silent query that held an unspoken command, and the way she found herself responding not out of obligation, but out of an innate understanding of his unspoken desires. He’d engage her in conversation, his voice a low, resonant hum that drew her attention away from the periphery of the room, from the watchful eyes of his men. Yet, even as he drew her into his orbit, his possession was subtly underscored.
“Did you find the music to your liking, Elara?” he might ask, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his glass, his eyes never leaving her face. His question wasn’t merely a polite inquiry; it was a subtle redirection, a gentle steering of the n
