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Jae-min was still seething, pacing the room like a caged tiger when Kolai returned. Two guards followed, each carrying sleek black cases. They set them on the velvet-draped table and opened them with a snap.
Inside: collars.
Not just any collars—luxury, custom, obscene in their detail. Leather, gold, velvet, chains. Some elegant, some brutal. Every single one screaming ownership.
Jae-min blinked. Then his face twisted. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
Kolai took a slow drag from his cigar. “Pick one.”
“Pick—?!” Jae-min barked out a laugh so sharp it cracked. “What the fuck am I, a goddamn poodle?!”
“Not a poodle,” Kolai murmured, smoke curling from his lips. “Mine.”
Jae-min grabbed one of the collars, a thick band of black leather with gold studs, and held it up like it was diseased. “This looks like something a fifty-year-old dom bought off Amazon!”
One of the guards choked back a laugh. Kolai didn’t move. Just watched.
“Oh, and this one?” Jae-min snatched up another—white velvet lined with pearls. He dangled it between two fingers, nose wrinkled. “What am I, some Victorian ghost bride? Bitch, please.”
He tossed it back into the case. “Ugly. Hideous. Zero stars. Next.”
Kolai finally raised a brow. “Careful, brat. Those cost more than your father’s car.”
“Then your taste is fucking bankrupt,” Jae-min snapped, digging through the cases like a spoiled influencer reviewing freebies. “Gold chain? Tacky. Spiked collar? What am I, in a punk band? And this—” he held up a delicate choker with a dangling diamond, staring at it like it offended him—“looks like something a sugar baby would wear to Coachella.”
He tossed it hard enough that it skidded across the velvet.
The guards looked at Kolai nervously.
Jae-min smirked, triumphant. “See? Can’t even collar me right. You’re pathetic.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
Then Kolai stubbed out his cigar, rose, and crossed the room with terrifying calm. Jae-min’s smirk faltered as gloved fingers closed around the back of his neck, yanking his head back.
“You will wear one,” Kolai said, voice like molten steel. “Whether you choose, or I chain it myself.”
Jae-min swallowed hard. His pride screamed don’t fold. His Omega instincts whispered danger, Alpha, careful.
He spat anyway. “Then pick one for me, asshole. Let’s see how shitty your taste really is.”
Kolai’s lips curled in a slow, cruel smile. He sifted through the collars with the same deliberation he’d use to choose a weapon. Finally, he plucked one out: black leather, smooth, minimal—except for the single gold ring in the center.
He held it up. “This.”
Jae-min blinked. His stomach flipped. It wasn’t ugly. It wasn’t gaudy. It was… perfect. Too perfect. A collar made to last. A collar made to own.
His throat tightened. “Tch. Boring.”
Kolai chuckled. “Good. You’ll learn to live in boring.”
He snapped it open, pressing it lightly against Jae-min’s throat. The leather was cool. The gold ring glinted under chandelier light.
“Final rule,” Kolai whispered against his ear. “Once the collar closes, it never comes off without my hand.”
The click echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Jae-min froze. Rage, humiliation, heat—twisting together until he wanted to scream. Instead, he shoved at Kolai’s chest, snarling:
“Fuck you. I’ll rip it off the first chance I get.”
Kolai smiled, slow and infuriating. “Try. I’ll enjoy putting it back on.”
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