Chapter 6: His Mark of Possession

Chapter 6: His Mark of Possession

The ride back to the penthouse was a silent torment. The opulent interior of the Maybach, which had felt like a protective cocoon on the way to the gala, now felt like a gilded cage. Liam drove, his hands gripping the wheel, the city lights flashing across the sharp, angry lines of his profile. He didn't speak, but Amy could feel his fury radiating off him in palpable waves—a cold, controlled rage that was far more terrifying than any outburst.

She stared out her own window, replaying the venomous words of Isabella Vance and Marcus Thorne. Project. Collection. Taming. The words were acid, dissolving the fragile trust she had placed in Liam, corroding the memory of their game until it seemed ugly and manipulative. His patient hands, his worshipful whispers during their first lesson—had it all been a calculated strategy? The thought made her stomach clench with a shame so profound it was nauseating.

When they entered the penthouse, the silence stretched, thin and brittle. Amy kicked off the painfully beautiful heels he’d bought her and walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows, wrapping her arms around herself. The glittering city spread out below, no longer a romantic galaxy but a cold, indifferent witness. She was putting distance between them, building a wall brick by silent brick.

“Amy.”

His voice came from behind her, low and hard. She didn't turn.

“I’m tired, Liam. It’s been a long night.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he commanded. The words were not a request. “I saw your face. I know Thorne and Isabella. What did they say to you?”

She finally turned, the emerald silk of her dress rustling with the movement. Her chin was high, her pride her only armor. “They said what everyone is thinking. What I was thinking before you started your… game.” The word felt bitter on her tongue. “They said I was your latest acquisition. A challenging reclamation project. Something to be conquered and collected before you move on to the next unopened door.”

She threw the words at him, wanting to hurt him, wanting him to feel even a fraction of the humiliation that was burning her alive.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He didn't deny it or get angry on her behalf. He simply watched her, his gray eyes unreadable. “And you believe them?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” she shot back, her voice cracking. “It fits the pattern, doesn’t it? The billionaire who gets whatever he wants. Isabella Vance was right there, Liam! A ghost from your ‘irrelevant’ past, warning me that the final surrender is always an anticlimax for you!”

The raw pain in her voice finally broke through his iron control. He took a step toward her, but she flinched back. The movement stopped him cold. The look on his face was something she had never seen before—not anger, not frustration, but a deep, raw hurt. For the first time, Liam Blackwood looked vulnerable.

“Do you really think that’s what this is?” he asked, his voice rough with an emotion she couldn't name. “A game of conquest?” He let out a harsh, bitter laugh that held no humor. “My entire life has been about acquisition, Amy. I was the poor kid who clawed his way into a world that despised him. I bought companies because it meant power. I bought art because it meant permanence. And yes,” he said, his gaze unflinching, “I was with women like Isabella because they were part of the uniform. They were acquisitions, transactions. Empty. Every single one of them.”

He took another slow step, and this time she didn’t retreat. He was stripping himself bare for her, and she was mesmerized.

“Then I walked into a small gallery to buy a painting and I saw a woman with a smudge of blue paint on her cheek arguing with the curator about artistic integrity. A woman with fire in her eyes and a soul so vibrant it made every other room I’d ever been in feel gray.” He was in front of her now, his hands coming up to cup her face, his touch achingly gentle. “You are not a project, Amy. You are not a part of my collection. You are the destination. The place I was trying to get to all along without even knowing it.”

Tears streamed down her face, washing away the poison of Isabella’s words. He wiped them away with his thumbs, his intense gaze holding hers.

“Their words have tainted what we’re building,” he murmured, his voice hardening again, the vulnerability being forged back into purpose. “They tried to make it ugly. So now, we will reclaim it. We will make it ours again, so completely that their voices become nothing but insignificant echoes.”

He released her and turned, striding into the bedroom. He returned a moment later holding the sleek black box from the exclusive boutique. Her heart hammered against her ribs. He placed it on the marble coffee table and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on the black tissue paper, was the small, jewel-like plug. He picked it up. In the soft light of the penthouse, the steel was dark and possessive, the crystal at its base glittering like a captured star.

“They think this is about a conquest in the bedroom,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “They are small-minded and unimaginative. They don’t understand that this,” he held the plug up between his fingers, “is not just about pleasure. It’s about possession. It’s a promise. A mark.”

He knelt before her, just as he had in her apartment. But this time, there was no gentle lesson in his eyes. There was a raw, territorial fire.

“I am going to put this inside you,” he said, his voice dropping to a velvet command. “And you are going to wear it. Not just here. Not just for me in private.”

Amy’s breath caught in her throat. The audacity of his intention hit her with the force of a physical blow.

“Tomorrow,” he continued, his eyes burning into hers, “we are going to have lunch at The Corinthian. Every rival I have, every gossip columnist, every Isabella and Marcus in this city will be there. You will sit across from me in a beautiful dress, and you will smile, and you will talk. And all the while, you will be wearing my mark. You will feel my claim on you with every breath, every movement. They will look at you, the fiery artist who has captivated the untouchable Liam Blackwood, and they will know nothing. And I… I will know everything. It will be our secret. Our victory.”

He was turning the tables completely. He was taking the public humiliation and forging it into a secret, private act of defiance and exquisite intimacy. The fear that had gripped her all night began to recede, replaced by a dark, coiling thrill. It was a terrifying, decadent, and deeply seductive proposition. It wasn't just his game anymore. It was theirs.

“Give yourself to me, Amy,” he whispered, his gaze unwavering. “Let me mark you as mine. In secret. In public. For all the world not to see.”

Her answer was not in words. Her answer was in the slow, deliberate way she reached out and placed her hand over his, her fingers closing around the cool, heavy steel of his gift. It was an agreement. An act of collusion. She was no longer just a player in his game. She was his willing accomplice. And the thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated power through her veins.