Chapter 2 – The Thorn King’s Claim

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.

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