Hartley Mansion.
Nero sat on the edge of his bed, the silk sheets rustling under his weight. In his right hand, he held the iron collar that Victor had delivered just hours ago. It was heavy, made of solid, polished metal with a reinforced hinge.
It was designed to be permanent, once locked, only the key he possessed could release it. It was supposed to be the final mark of his ownership.
But he felt like something wasn't right.
Nero gripped the collar so tightly his knuckles turned white. His pulse throbbed in his neck. He felt a strange, nagging unease in his chest, a sensation he wasn't used to. It felt like he had misplaced something vital, like a part of his daily routine had been ripped away.
For thirteen years, Milo had been there. Even when Milo was being punished, he was there.
