Page 18 of Owned By the Hvrok

And now, it worked its way into her bones. He could see her shifting slightly. Her lips parted as though she might speak—only to close again. She was not used to being ignored. Her species, he had learned, were noisy. Restless.

But she must learn.

He made a slow, deliberate gesture—one gloved hand rising to tap his own throat. The other held up the new collar. Then he shrugged, tilting his head. A simple message. One or the other. The choice is yours.

Her face twisted. Not in fear. In fury.

She spoke then—a sharp, guttural sound in her alien tongue. A curse, perhaps. He didn’t know the words, but the tone was unmistakable.

Then, without another word, she pointed at the collar in his hand. Her chin raised, her shoulders squared in challenge.

It amused him.

The chuckle escaped before he could stop it—low, deep, edged in something primal. Her reaction was so human. So raw. So… alive.

She would be a handful. But he hadn’t expected less.

He stepped forward, silent as death, the collar still in hand. And as he approached, she didn’t back away. Her defiance remained etched into her posture, but there was something else now—something hesitant flickering behind her stare.

Curiosity.

Good. That, he could work with.

He would train her. Gently, if she allowed it. Firmly, if she did not.

But one thing was already certain.

She was his.

And every being in this galaxy would know it.

CHAPTER 13

This was messed up.

Sylvia stared at the ornate collar in his hand: beautiful, alien, glittering with soft-blue gemstones that shimmered under the light spilling from the view of space beyond the window. It looked like it belonged in a royal treasury, or a museum, or maybe around the neck of some alien aristocrat—not on her.

And yet… that was exactly where it was about to go.

He was giving her a choice, in the most twisted way possible. This, or the ugly, heavy, too-tight collar that still chafed her skin and reminded her of the slavers. She could keep wearing the symbol of her captivity, or she could willingly take the thing he offered—the one that screamed ownership in an entirely new way.

She didn’t like either option.

God, who did this bastard think he was?

She wanted to spit, to curse, to throw something—anything to show him she wasn’t some docile pet to be adorned. But a glance at him cooled that fire. He stood like a statue carved from shadow, his powerful form radiating calm… but not kindness. Control. Power. Restraint.

Barely.

She didn’t want to find out what would happen if that restraint snapped.

And still… when he chuckled, something hot and unfamiliar coiled in her belly. Like this whole thing amused him. As if her anger, her defiance, pleased him. Was that it? Did he get off on this?

Arrogant bastard.

But… there was something else in her, too. Something traitorous. The tiniest, most awful flicker of dark fascination. Because despite everything—his terrifying silence, his armor, his hulking strength—there was something thrilling about the idea of being chosen. Possessed.

She hated the thought. Hated that she felt it.

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