Page 31 of Owned By the Hvrok

No. He was just playing another game. That was what this was. Another careful move in his quiet little war. A psychological maneuver. Every gesture was a way to steer her where he wanted her.

He lifted the garment slightly in his hands.

A motion.

Come.

She hesitated, jaw clenching, but... what choice did she have?

She wasnaked. And heknewit grated on her. Knew it pierced deeper than any weapon could. That bastard. He used her own modesty, her humanity, against her.

Sylvia forced herself forward, one step at a time, each footfall like a surrender.

He didn’t touch her immediately.

He waited until she was close. Then, he moved with the same slow precision she was beginning to recognize as his default. Deliberate. Exact. He draped the garment over her shoulders—not pulling, not forcing. Just... dressing her. As if she were a doll.

It wasn’t just a wrap.

It was adress.

The fabric—or whatever it was—settled against her body like liquid, then molded. It hugged her, smoothing over her arms, sliding down her torso, curving over her hips like it had been tailored just for her.

She gasped softly as it sealed at her back—not with zippers or buttons, but something seamless, the material drawing itself closed with a quiet hum. She didn’t understand the mechanism. It didn’t matter.

It was on.

Thick, but soft. Flexible. Somewhere between leather and silk, but neither. It moved with her, like a second skin. Abeautifulsecond skin.

Her hands slid instinctively over the fabric. It was strange... but comfortable. It clung to her breasts, her waist, her thighs—but not indecently. Not like the Dukkar’s outfit. It was, in its way,elegant.

She was still barefoot. The collar still hugged her throat.

And now this.

This dress.

She hated that it looked good on her.

Hated that it made her feel warm, andsafe, even for a moment.

Because it wasn’t a gift.

It was a leash.

A sign of ownership.

She belonged to him.

And he was dressing her accordingly.

Sylvia swallowed hard, forcing the lump down.

Then he turned, as if nothing had passed between them at all.

And she followed.

Clean. Clothed. And walking once more at the heels of the one who had taken everything from her.

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