Shared by the Obsidian Lords

Chapter 1

The bass from the ballroom above vibrated through the gold-leafed ceiling, a steady, thumping heartbeat that masked the sound of my ragged breathing.

I pressed my back against the mahogany door of the private study, the stolen silk of my crimson gown clinging to my sweat-slicked skin. My hands were shaking. I forced them to still, adjusting the delicate Venetian lace mask over my eyes.

"Focus, Clara," I whispered to the empty room. "Get the drive. Get out. Go back to being boring."

I pushed off the door and darted toward the massive oak desk at the center of the room. The Obsidian Gala was supposed to be a myth—an underground gathering of the city’s most dangerous elites, where fortunes were traded in blood and secrets. But the invitation I had lifted from a careless socialite was very real, and the safe hidden behind the painting of the storm-tossed sea was exactly where my informant said it would be.

I reached behind the canvas, my fingers brushing the cool steel of the biometric keypad.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you."

The voice came from the darkest corner of the study. It was a low, resonant baritone, smooth like aged whiskey and sharp enough to draw blood.

I froze, my heart launching into my throat. I spun around, my back hitting the edge of the desk. "Who's there?"

A shadow detached itself from the leather wingback chair in the corner. He stepped into the moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was tall—imposing and broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit that screamed of wealth and violence. A black masquerade mask concealed the upper half of his face, but his jaw was a rigid line of granite, and his mouth was set in a cruel, mocking curve.

"A thief in a stolen dress," the man said, his heavy footsteps silent on the Persian rug as he advanced. "And not a very good one. You breathe too loudly, Clara Vance."

My blood ran cold. *He knows my name.*

"I don't know who you are," I said, lifting my chin, forcing every ounce of defiance I possessed into my voice. "But you're standing in my way. Step aside."

He stopped mere inches from me. Up close, he smelled of bergamot, expensive tobacco, and raw, unrestrained power. The sheer dominance radiating from him made my knees tremble. And yet, beneath the terror, a dark, traitorous spark of heat flared deep in my stomach.

"Step aside?" he repeated, a dark chuckle vibrating in his chest. "You break into my house, infiltrate my gala, and try to rob my safe, and you command me to step aside?"

"Your safe?" My voice hitched. *No. It can't be.* "You're... Silas Thorne."

Silas. The billionaire crime lord. The head of the Obsidian Circle. The man who supposedly skinned traitors alive and wore their screams as a badge of honor.

"In the flesh," Silas murmured, lifting a gloved hand to trace the line of my jaw. "And you, little archivist, are woefully out of your depth."

I slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me."

Silas’s eyes flashed behind his mask, a deadly, thrilling promise. Before I could blink, his hand shot out, wrapping around my throat. He didn't squeeze, but the threat was absolute. He shoved me backward, pinning me hard against the edge of the desk.

"I decide who I touch," Silas commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate whisper. "I decide who breathes in this room. And right now, I am deciding what to do with a defiant little mouse who thought she could steal from a lion."

"Let me go!" I gasped, thrashing against his grip. But his body was a wall of solid muscle pressing flush against mine. The friction of his thighs against my silk-clad legs sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to my core.

*God, no,* I thought, my internal wound tearing wide open. *Don't let him see. Don't let him know what this is doing to you.*

I had spent my entire life hiding my intense, primal cravings behind oversized sweaters and library stacks. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be safe. But pinned beneath the ruthless crime lord, feeling the absolute, terrifying control he held over me, my body betrayed me. I was completely, overwhelmingly aroused.

"Fight me," Silas whispered, leaning in so his lips brushed the shell of my ear. "Come on, Clara. Show me those claws. I love it when they fight back. It makes breaking them so much sweeter."

"I'm not one of your cartel whores," I spat, gripping his wrists, trying to pry his hand from my throat. "If you're going to kill me, just do it. But don't play games with me."

"Kill you?" Silas laughed, a dark, wicked sound. His free hand slid down my waist, gripping my hip tightly enough to bruise. "Why would I destroy such a beautiful toy? You're practically trembling out of your skin. Are you afraid of me, Clara?"

"Yes," I lied, my voice shaking with breathless need.

"Liar," he accused softly. His hand moved from my hip, sliding up my thigh, bunching the silk of my dress in his fist. "You're terrified, yes. But that’s not why you're shaking. You like this. You crave the heavy hand, don't you?"

"Stop it," I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut as his gloved fingers brushed the bare skin of my upper thigh. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know that your pulse is racing," Silas said, his thumb pressing into the erratic pulse point at my neck. "I know that you're breathing like you've just run a marathon. And I know that if I touch you right now, you'll shatter for me."

"Screw you," I breathed out, my chest heaving against his.

"Eventually," Silas promised.

He moved with terrifying speed. He spun me around, slamming my chest against the polished wood of the desk. He kicked my legs apart, his knee pressing firmly between my thighs to keep me anchored.

"What are you doing?!" I cried out, my hands scrambling for purchase on the desk.

"Taking what is mine," Silas growled against my neck.

He didn't undress me. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of his body pressing me into the wood, the rough scrape of his teeth against my collarbone, the absolute, unyielding possession in his grip—it was a sensory overload. His hand roamed over my body with brutal efficiency, claiming every curve, mapping every inch of my trembling form.

"Tell me," Silas demanded, his voice a harsh rasp in my ear as his hips ground flush against mine. "Tell me you belong to me."

"Never," I sobbed, though my body arched involuntarily into his touch. The friction was maddening. The dark, anonymous room, the danger, the sheer ruthless power of the man holding me captive—it was everything I hated about myself, everything I secretly desired.

"Say it," he commanded, his grip on my hips tightening painfully. "Say: 'I am yours, Silas.'"

"Go to hell!" I screamed.

Silas chuckled, a sound devoid of mercy. "Such a beautiful defiance. Let's see how long it lasts."

He reached into his pocket. I heard the cold clink of heavy metal. Before I could process what was happening, he wrapped something thick and cold around the front of my throat.

*Click.*

The mechanism locked at the nape of my neck with a heavy, final sound. I gasped, reaching up to claw at the cold metal. It was a collar. Thick, seamless steel, lined with something that hummed faintly against my skin.

"What is this?" I panicked, my fingers finding no clasp, no keyhole. "Take it off! Take it off me!"

Silas stepped back, releasing me so suddenly I nearly collapsed against the desk. He adjusted his suit jacket, his chest rising and falling with a heavy, ragged breath that mirrored my own. Even in the shadows, I could see the dark, possessive hunger burning in his eyes.

"That collar is biometric," Silas said, his voice returning to its icy, commanding drawl. "It monitors your pulse, your location, and your temperature. If you try to cut it off, it will release a neurotoxin that will paralyze you in seconds."

"You're insane," I breathed, spinning around to face him, my hands desperately pulling at the steel ring. "You can't do this! I am not your property!"

Silas stepped into the moonlight, reaching out to trace the metal band resting against my collarbone. His touch was burning hot through the steel.

"You are now," he whispered.

He turned on his heel and strode toward the study door. He didn't look back as he opened it, letting the thunderous music of the gala spill into the room.

"Run, Clara," Silas called out over his shoulder. "Let's see how far my little mouse can get before she realizes she's already in the cage."

The door clicked shut, plunging the room back into silence.

My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. My fingers traced the heavy, pulsing metal collar locked securely around my neck. At the front, etched deeply into the steel, I felt the unmistakable grooves of lettering. I rushed to the window, angling my neck into the moonlight to read the reflection in the glass.

As Silas left me trembling in the dark, Clara realizes he locked a heavy, pulsing metal collar around her neck that reads: 'Property of Thorne'.