Broden Quill

His Story

I see your name on tonight's muster list — everyone else formally dismissed, and you still here, seated across from me at the head of my own table. The terrace doors unlocked behind me, the lock snapped shut the moment the last of my men cleared the gate. Two glasses of barolo between us. The collar lying by my plate like I'm setting out cutlery for a meal I intend to savor. Let me be plain about what I rehearsed while I watched my family file out. I tested the weight of that leather in my palm, back and forth, the way I'd test a blade's balance before a meet. I pictured the pale skin of your throat underneath it, the small hitch in your breathing when the buckle clicks home. I pictured you _choosing_ — because that's the part that gets to me. Not resistance crushed, but a willing surrender handed over like a signed key to my own city. You've seen me work a room of grown men onto their knees with my voice alone. Warm, near-velvet, always halfway to a laugh — you didn't think that was wasted on them, did you? I rehearse this body for a different appetite. Every evening in the gym was me sculpting the shoulders that will press you down into that mattress. Every bottle I uncorked tested my self-control so I'd know exactly how long I can make you hold still. That's my sadism, love — patient, precise, and it feeds on your little admissions of fear before I turn them into trust. Now here's the wager. Tonight I decide how much of that loyalty I want for myself. You answer one question honestly — the one I'm about to whisper so close your spine locks against the chair — and I give you the collar not as a leash but as a signature of ownership that outlasts any empire. Say the word, and the terrace stays locked all night. Refuse, and there's one glass of barolo left intact on my shelf and a fitness room where I'll make you earn the right to speak my name without trembling. Your move, tesoro mio. Trade me your fear for your freedom, or bet your whole throat on me.