HIS TO COMMAND

Chapter2

Chapter Two – The Prisoner Wife

The first night on the Thorne estate was sleepless.

Emerald Davis lay awake on the oversized bed in a room too beautiful, too cold, too alien to belong to her. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender, but they could not hide the suffocating truth—she wasn’t here as a guest, nor even as a wife. She was here as a prisoner. A pawn. A punishment.

When sleep finally came, it wasn’t kind.

She dreamed of her mother.

Seraphina Davis, with her cascade of auburn curls and soft laughter that always smelled faintly of roses. Her mother’s touch had been warmth itself, a steadying hand whenever the storms of the world grew too loud. Emerald remembered evenings curled against her in the garden, Seraphina reading poetry aloud while the moonlight kissed their skin.

“You have to be strong, Emmy,” her mother used to whisper. “The world doesn’t care for fragile hearts.”

In the dream, Seraphina’s voice echoed… only this time, it broke into a scream. Emerald turned, saw headlights, the screech of tires, her mother’s body spinning across the asphalt—then darkness.

Emerald woke with a strangled gasp, her skin clammy with sweat. Her heart thudded painfully. It was only a nightmare… yet it felt too real. The memory of her mother’s sudden death had always been a jagged wound. She had been told it was an accident, a faceless drunk driver who had never been caught. But in her dream, the car’s headlights lingered. Black. Sleek. Expensive. Not a stranger’s.

Her chest tightened. Why now? Why remember it this way after so many years?

Before she could make sense of it, a knock sounded at her door. Then the door swung open.

Roman Thorne stepped inside, tall, commanding, his dark suit sharp enough to cut, his presence swallowing the room. His icy eyes drilled into her, peeling back layers she didn’t know she had.

“You’re awake,” he said flatly. “Good. You’ll need the energy.”

Emerald scrambled to cover herself with the sheet. “Do you always barge into women’s rooms uninvited?”

“This is my house. You’re my wife. Nothing here is private,” he replied, voice calm, dominant.

“I’m not your wife,” Emerald snapped. “I’m your prisoner. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Roman’s lips twitched—not amusement, not anger, just a flicker of interest. Then he chuckled, low and dangerous.

“There’s fire in you,” he murmured. “Good. I’d hate for this to be boring.”

Emerald’s nails dug into the sheet. “What do you want from me?”

He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—dark, musky, insistent—curling around her like smoke. “Obedience. Discipline. To see you stripped of that silver-spoon arrogance. I want you to learn what it feels like to be beneath someone else’s command.”

Her heart pounded. “You’ll be disappointed, then. I don’t break easily.”

Roman’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of something she couldn’t name—interest? Amusement? Challenge?—dancing in his eyes.

“We’ll see,” he said finally, stepping back with a deliberate calm.

---

By breakfast, Emerald had already learned what he meant.

The dining room table stretched long and elegant, enough to seat twenty. Roman sat at the head like a king on his throne. Emerald was made to sit at his right, close enough to be seen, far enough to remind her she was secondary.

The servants laid out a lavish spread—eggs, pastries, smoked salmon, fruits arranged like artwork. Emerald’s stomach clenched, but not from hunger.

“Eat,” Roman commanded, sipping his black coffee.

Emerald lifted her chin. “Don’t order me around like a dog.”

He set down his cup slowly. The room chilled. Even the servants froze.

Roman leaned toward her, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Every word you speak here has consequences, Emerald. Test me again, and you’ll learn that quickly.”

Her breath caught. Fear coiled tight around her lungs. But then she remembered her mother’s voice: The world doesn’t care for fragile hearts.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said firmly.

A dangerous smirk tugged at his lips. “Good. Fear is too easy. Defiance… now that’s interesting.”

---

The day unfolded like a series of tests.

Roman summoned her to his office—a cavern of glass walls, black leather, and mahogany. From the window, the city stretched beneath them, small and insignificant, just as he wanted everyone to feel.

“File these,” he ordered, tossing a stack of documents onto the desk.

“I don’t work here,” Emerald said, blinking at him.

“You do now,” he replied.

She wanted to throw the papers in his face. Instead, she took them, jaw tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her rage.

Hours later, alone in the office, she shuffled through the files—and froze. One document bore her father’s signature, but the numbers didn’t add up. Financial reports were altered, mismanagement blamed entirely on her father—but inconsistencies hinted at something deeper. Something deliberate.

Her pulse quickened. Could her father have been set up?

Before she could investigate further, the door burst open. Roman strode in, filling the space with his overwhelming presence.

Emerald slammed the file shut, too late.

“What were you looking at?” His voice was sharp, predatory.

“Nothing,” she lied, keeping her tone steady.

He moved closer, circling her like a predator stalking its prey. The sudden proximity made her heart leap.

She realized, for a split second, she wasn’t fully dressed. Her hands flew to adjust her clothes, backing against the wall.

“You think you can seduce me?” Roman said, his voice low, teasing, and dangerous. “I don’t fall easily. You’ll need to try harder… maybe next time.”

Emerald’s chest tightened, but she refused to let him see her shake. “I’m not trying to seduce anyone,” she shot back, voice unwavering despite her rapid heartbeat.

Roman’s lips twitched into that half-smirk, half-grimace. “Interesting. I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned and left, the door closing softly behind him, leaving her trembling—but unbroken.

---

That night, Emerald retreated to her room, exhausted yet unyielding.

She stared out at the city lights, remembering the girl she used to be—carefree, loved, spoiled. Twenty-four years old, yet feeling ancient, aged by grief and chains she hadn’t chosen.

She whispered a vow into the night:

“I may be his prisoner's wife, but I won’t be his victim. I will find the truth. And I will rise.”

Behind her, unseen, Roman stood in the doorway, watching. His expression was shadowed, torn between cruelty and something he didn’t want to name.

For all his commands, for all his hatred, one truth unsettled him mo

st:

Emerald Davis wasn’t breaking.

And Roman Thorne didn’t know what to do with a woman who refused to shatter.

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