“The lock in is also when the wife is collared.” Luca added, just as Bastion traced my neck.
“What?” I couldn’t even hide my shock.
“You wear a collar,” Luca explained. “Necklace. Ring. Bracelet. It doesn’t come off.”
All this time I thought their Codex was just rumoured to be different.
“It doesn’t come off?” I repeated. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
I could’ve left it there. I should have.
But something bitter crept through me and the weight of the way they spoke about wives like they wereroles, notpeople.
“So that’s what they are to your family?” I added quietly. “Wives. Pets.”
Our whole life we are told that Crows claim, but hearing it from them, it hit differently.
“No,” Bastion said finally. “They’re not pets.”
He leaned in slightly. “A pet can be replaced. A wife can’t.”
Luca’s voice followed, “When we collar her, it’s not to own her body.”
My jaw clenched.
He saw it—of course he did—and added, “It’s to mark that she owns ours.”
I nearly rolled my eyes,“I don’t?—”
“You asked how long it stays on,” Bastion cut in, eyes dark. “The answer’s forever.”
“But—”
“Our Dynasty does not divorce,” Luca said simply. “Ever. Not once the vow is made.”
“That collar isn’t ornamental,” Bastion murmured. “It’s proof. Of loyalty, permanence.”
“And love,” Luca said, quieter now. “It’s supposed to mean love.”
I sat still, the words thick in my throat.
Bastion’s hand grazed my shoulder, fingers brushing my skin like he was trying to anchor the weight of his own words.
“There’s a reason the lock-in is five days,” he added. “It’s not about breaking her. It’s about bindingus.”
“Training,” I whispered. “That’s what you called it.”
Luca nodded. “Training her to trust. To let go. To stop performing peace and start feeling it.”
I didn’t speak. I just looked at them, trying to find the line where devotion ended and domination began.
“So let me get this straight,” I moved slightly, “There are blood rituals. Crest tattoos. Blood tattoos. Collars. The lock-in.Training. A vow said over her thigh before you brand her skin.”
Their silence was a kind of answer. I kept going.
“She loses her name. Her clothes. Her home. Her passport. Her file gets sealed and her schedule rerouted through your security servers. She gets assigned a driver, a medic, and a digital handler who makes sure she posts the right things, smiles the right way, bleeds at the right time.”
Neither of them corrected me.
