The blindfold was silk. Expensive, perfumed, and threaded with rose petals. It should have felt soft, but to Seraphine it was a noose, strangling her with every step she took.

Her wrists were bound with velvet cuffs as she was led down a hall that smelled of smoke, wine, and roses left too long in the sun. Laughter echoed from ahead—low, masculine, predatory. The kind of sound that made her skin crawl and her stomach knot.

She stumbled, and the hand gripping her elbow tightened. “Careful, flower,” the handler whispered in her ear, voice dripping with cruel amusement. “Bruises fetch a higher price, but scars? Scars are messy.”

Seraphine’s jaw clenched. She wanted to spit in his face, to tear off the blindfold and run until her lungs burned. But the last time she had tried to fight, she’d been shown what disobedience earned: hours locked in a cold stone cell with whispers bleeding through the walls, whispers of what happened to the others who hadn’t learned quickly enough.

And so, tonight, she walked. Silent. Hating.

The doors creaked open.

Heat hit her skin first. A heavy wave of bodies, perfumes, colognes, and greed. Then sound—the sudden hush of voices, followed by murmurs of approval. She could feel the weight of their gazes pressing into her as the handler guided her to the center.

The blindfold was ripped away.

Seraphine flinched at the blinding light. When her vision steadied, she saw them: rows of masked faces staring from velvet-lined balconies. Men in black, women in jewels, all of them hidden behind ornate masks—golden, feathered, jeweled, grotesque. Their eyes gleamed through the holes, hungry and amused.

The hall was a theater, designed for spectacle. Marble floors, a domed ceiling painted with angels, and in the center—her.

The handler’s voice rang out: “Lot Thirty-Seven. A rare specimen. Untouched. Wild. A flower worth caging.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, followed by the clinking of glasses.

Seraphine’s chest tightened. She stood tall, refusing to tremble, even as eyes raked her bare shoulders and thin silk dress. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing fear.

“Let the bidding begin,” the handler announced.

Numbers rose. Voices shouted from balconies. One hundred thousand. Two hundred. Five. The crowd buzzed like bees drunk on blood.

Seraphine’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. They were selling her. Just like that. She was no one. Nothing. A flower to be plucked and displayed.

Then it happened.

The hall went silent.

From the highest balcony, a figure stepped forward. His mask was unlike the others. While theirs glittered with jewels, his was wrought of black metal shaped into thorns. Silver edges gleamed like blades. The mask covered half his face, but his eyes—icy, glacial blue—burned down at her like knives.

The Thorn King.

The name rushed through the crowd in whispers. Even the handler lowered his head, trembling.

“I’ll take her.”

His voice was deep, smooth, but edged with steel. It was not a request. It was a decree.

The handler stammered, “M-my lord, the bidding—”

“Is over.”

Silence. Not a soul dared defy him.

The Thorn King leaned against the balcony rail, gaze locked on Seraphine. Not once did he blink. Not once did his attention waver. It was as though the entire Garden, the crowd, the masks—none of it existed. Only her.

Seraphine felt her throat close. For the first time, fear licked at her spine—not from the crowd, not from the sale, but from the way that man looked at her. Possessive. Final. Like he had already taken her apart and pieced her back together in his mind.

Her hands clenched into fists. She hated him. Whoever he was, whatever power he wielded, she hated him for claiming her so easily.

His lips curved beneath the mask. He had seen it—the spark in her eyes, the fire she tried to bury.

And he liked it.

The handler bowed, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Y-yes, my lord. She is yours.”

The crowd erupted in murmurs. Some jealous. Some relieved. None daring to challenge.

Seraphine lifted her chin. If he thought she’d bow, if he thought she’d break, he was wrong. She wasn’t a flower to bloom for him. She was thorns.

And if he touched her, he would bleed.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

The carriage rattled over cobblestones, the sound echoing like a drumbeat of doom in Seraphine’s ears.

Her wrists were free now, but only because there was nowhere to run. Velvet curtains sealed the world outside, shutting out moonlight and the faint hope of escape. Across from her sat two guards in black masks, silent as statues. Between them lay a single rose, black as ink, resting on the velvet seat.

The mark of ownership.

Her throat tightened at the sight of it. That rose wasn’t just a symbol—it was a chain. To wear it meant belonging. To refuse it… she didn’t want to imagine what refusal meant.

She pressed her hands together in her lap, fingers trembling despite her effort to appear composed. She would not show fear. Not again.

The memory of the hall still burned inside her—the crowd, the eyes, the Thorn King’s voice. His claim. The way he had looked at her as if she was already his.

Seraphine’s jaw clenched. Let him think he owned her. She would not be his flower. She was thorn and fire.

The carriage slowed. Outside, iron gates groaned open, and then the wheels rolled onto softer ground—gravel. The air grew colder. The scent of roses drifted in, sharp and cloying, as if even the garden itself was a prison.

Finally, the carriage stopped.

The door opened, and light spilled in. Seraphine blinked against the glow of torches lining a path.

“Out,” one of the guards ordered.

She stepped down, silk skirts brushing the gravel. Her bare feet stung against the stones, but she lifted her chin and refused to wince.

The world before her was both beautiful and terrifying.

A sprawling mansion rose from the darkness, its windows lit with golden fire. Ivy crawled up its stone walls, twisting like veins. Behind it, she glimpsed the outlines of a vast garden—arches of roses, tall hedges, and marble statues half-hidden in shadows. The air was heavy with the perfume of blooms, sweet and suffocating.

And at the end of the torchlit path, he waited.

The Thorn King.

He stood like a shadow made flesh, tall, broad-shouldered, his black thorned mask gleaming under the flames. His gloved hands rested behind his back, but his gaze—those glacial eyes—pinned her in place.

Seraphine’s heart thudded.

The guards bowed and stepped back, leaving her alone in his line of sight.

She did not move. Neither did he.

The silence stretched, sharp as a blade.

Finally, his voice broke it. Low, smooth, commanding. “Come here.”

It wasn’t a request.

Seraphine’s pulse raced, but her feet refused. She met his gaze with all the defiance she could summon. “No.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his eyes. “No?”

“You don’t own me,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor inside.

For a moment, silence. Then a sound escaped him—soft, dangerous. A laugh.

He moved toward her. Slow, deliberate steps on the gravel, each one making her pulse climb higher. He stopped only a breath away, his presence overwhelming, his scent a mix of smoke, leather, and roses crushed underfoot.

“Wrong,” he murmured, his voice brushing against her skin. “The moment you stepped into that hall, you belonged to me. And I don’t share what’s mine.”

His gloved hand reached for her face. She jerked back, but he caught her chin, tilting her gaze up to his. The mask’s thorns framed his sharp jaw, his lips partly visible beneath it. She hated herself for noticing how perfectly cruel that mouth looked.

She glared, trying to twist away, but his grip was iron.

“Fight all you want, little flower,” he whispered. “I enjoy it.”

Heat flushed her cheeks—not from fear this time, but from the strange current that sparked between them. His voice was sin. His touch, even through the glove, burned.

“I’m not your flower,” she hissed.

His lips curved. “Then what are you?”

Her breath caught.

Before she could answer, he released her, stepping back. The sudden absence of his touch left her trembling in anger and confusion.

“Take her inside,” he ordered the guards. His eyes never left hers. “She will learn.”

As they guided her toward the mansion, Seraphine cast one last look at him. His mask gleamed in the firelight, his gaze still fixed on her like a predator who had already chosen his prey.

And though every part of her screamed to resist, one truth gnawed at her heart:

She had never felt more alive than under the weight of his eyes.

The mansion swallowed Seraphine whole.

Tall ceilings, gilded chandeliers, and corridors lined with portraits that stared down with lifeless eyes. Every inch of the house reeked of wealth and power, yet beneath the polish lurked something… darker. The shadows stretched too long. The silence was too sharp.

The guards left her in a candlelit hall, her bare feet sinking into the plush crimson carpet. At the far end stood a pair of black double doors, carved with roses and thorns.

He appeared behind her before she heard him.

The Thorn King.

His presence was a weight, pulling the air from her lungs. She turned slowly, her breath catching when she found him closer than she expected, his mask gleaming in the candlelight.

“This will be your cage,” he said, voice low, steady. “Until you learn what it means to belong.”

Seraphine’s chin lifted. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

He stepped nearer, the scent of smoke and roses wrapping around her. “Not yet.”

Her skin prickled as his gloved hand brushed a strand of hair from her face. It wasn’t tender. It was possessive—like a sculptor touching clay he already owned.

She shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

His laugh was soft, dangerous. “Defiance suits you. But in time, little flower, even thorns soften.”

He gestured to the doors. They opened with a groan, revealing a room that stole her breath.

It was not a prison. It was a garden.

Inside stretched an indoor sanctuary—a greenhouse beneath a glass dome. Roses of every color climbed trellises, their petals glowing under lantern light. A fountain trickled in the center, its water tinted red by floating petals. Vines curled around marble statues—statues of women. Beautiful, tragic, eternal.

Seraphine’s stomach twisted. Were they art… or warnings?

She stepped inside cautiously. The perfume of roses was overwhelming, intoxicating. She hated that it was beautiful.

“This is where my flowers bloom,” he said, entering behind her. His voice filled the chamber like smoke. “And this is where you will bloom.”

Her fists clenched. “I will never bloom for you.”

He circled her slowly, predator watching prey. “Every flower says the same. Until they discover how sweet it feels to surrender.”

Seraphine forced herself to meet his eyes through the mask. “You may own this place. You may hold the chains. But you will never own me.”

The silence stretched. Then he stopped in front of her, so close she could see his breath fog against the mask.

“I already do.”

Her pulse thundered, fury and fear warring with something far more dangerous—curiosity.

Why did his words burn? Why did her body betray her, trembling not just from fear but from heat?

He reached into his coat, drawing out a single rose, black as midnight. Its stem was lined with thorns.

He held it out to her. “Take it.”

She stared at the rose, her chest tightening. “No.”

His gloved hand extended further, patience fraying. “Take it, Seraphine.”

Her name on his lips struck like a brand. She had never told him her name.

Her throat went dry. “How do you—”

“I know everything about you,” he interrupted, voice velvet and steel. “The night you were taken. The life you lost. The secrets you keep even from yourself.”

Her blood ran cold. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” His eyes glimmered beneath the mask, sharp, knowing. “You will take this rose. If not tonight… then soon. Because no matter how you resist me, you were always meant to be mine.”

Seraphine’s hand trembled, hovering inches from the rose. Every instinct screamed to refuse. To spit in his face. To run.

But the pull was undeniable. As if the flower itself whispered to her, tempting, dangerous.

At the last second, she ripped her gaze away and stepped back. “Never.”

His hand closed around the rose, crushing the stem until blood bloomed through his glove. He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he leaned close, his voice a dark promise against her ear.

“Every thorn will cut you, little flower. And every cut will remind you—you are mine.”

Then he turned, leaving her trembling among the roses, her defiance burning… but her body betraying her with heat she could not smother.