"A husband protects what's his. But he'd never said I belonged to him."
Kyra Wynn paced the floor of the starlit chamber, fists clenched, rage burning hotter than the magic in her veins. Somewhere in this twisted palace of midnight and marble, something had tried to kill her. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically.
Literally.
She still felt the bruising chill of shadow-claws scraping across her ribs.
And she had questions—bloody, furious questions—and the only person with answers was the High Lord who had shackled her to this place.
Asher Vale.
She found him standing at the edge of a terrace overlooking an endless void of stars. The wind teased his dark hair. His back was straight. Calm. Like he hadn't just unleashed raw, searing death on a shadow beast that had almost gutted her.
"You sent it."
He didn't look at her. "No."
"You let it in."
That earned her a glance. Silver eyes like moonlight on ice. Dangerous and unreadable.
"Your assumptions are tiresome."
"And your silence is damning."
He moved then—just a step. But the ring on her finger flared. Hot. Alive. She gasped and clutched her hand. The pulse of power tethered her to him like a leash, a brand.
"You bound me to you," she whispered.
"I saved your life."
"So you can own it?"
He finally turned fully. The moon cast him in argent fire, all cold angles and restrained wrath.
"You are my wife," he said, voice low and lethal. "Don't make me remind them why."
The dress was a punishment. Midnight silk with a bodice so tight she could barely breathe, a slit high enough to shame her ancestors, and sheer sleeves that shimmered like spider silk.
"Absolutely not," she muttered, tossing the gown back on the bed.
She wore her plain shift instead and left her hair unbound. Mortal and defiant.
When he appeared at her door, Asher said nothing for a long, coiled moment.
Then: "You're making a scene before we even arrive."
She raised her chin. "I'm not your doll."
He crossed the room in two strides. A hand gripped her jaw, not hard, but with meaning. Heat licked up her spine as the bond flared.
"No," he said. "You're my wife. And every creature in that court wants to see if I'm weak enough to let you forget it."
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. But her heart beat like war drums in her throat.
His fingers loosened, then trailed down her throat, lingering over her pulse.
"Don't tempt them," he said, and let her go.
The court was a glittering nightmare. Starlight chandeliers. Music made of wind and bone. Fae in gowns that glowed and armor that gleamed. Every gaze sliced into her like a blade.
"Is that the mortal?"
"He married that?"
"Pity."
Asher said nothing, but his grip on her waist was iron. Possessive. Every step he took was a silent declaration: mine.
She hated the way her skin burned beneath his touch. Hated more how her body betrayed her, leaning slightly into the heat of him, craving it like a drug.
She kept her chin high. Let them stare.
Then he came.
Lord Therion. Silver-haired. Smirking. A rival court lord with hunger in his eyes.
"High Lord," Therion drawled, bowing with mock grace. "And his precious mortal bride."
Asher stiffened beside her. She stepped forward before he could speak.
"You forgot 'charmed to meet you.' Or are manners too mortal for you to grasp?"
Gasps.
Therion's eyes glittered. He took her hand and bowed low.
"Oh, she bites. I like that."
And before she could jerk away, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles—and let his lips linger.
Wrong.
It felt wrong. Violating. Not because she wanted Asher. But because this was about power. Dominance. A fae trying to humiliate the High Lord by touching what was his.
Asher moved so fast the air cracked.
One moment, Therion stood.
The next, he was on the ground. Throat crushed. Blood blooming like a dark flower.
Silence fell.
Asher's voice was pure death. "Let that be a warning."
He took Kyra's hand and dragged her out, through corridors of black glass and into the private wing. She didn't speak. Couldn't.
Her heart thundered.
In their chamber, he let go. Stared at her with fire in his eyes.
"Don't let another man touch you again."
She slapped him.
It echoed like a scream.
"I didn't let him. You stood there. You watched it happen."
His nostrils flared.
"You enjoyed it."
"I was humiliated, you arrogant bastard."
He crossed the space between them in a blur. Grabbed her hips. Spun her and bent her over the bed.
"What are you—"
His hand came down. Once. Hard.
She gasped.
"Count, Kyra."
"Go to hell."
Another slap.
"One."
Her breath hitched.
"Two."
Each strike landed with brutal precision. Each made her thighs clench and her skin burn. Twenty. She reached twenty with tears in her eyes and fire under her skin.
He flipped her over, gaze black with power.
"You wear my ring. You sleep in my bed."
His hand slid up her thigh.
"You want to challenge me, Kyra? Then know the cost."
Fingers pressed against her core. Over the fabric, slick and throbbing.
Her breath shattered.
"You're wet for me," he said, voice rough silk. "You like this."
She shook her head. "I hate you."
His mouth was at her throat, teeth grazing. "Then hate me harder."
He kissed her. Hard. Possessive. A devouring storm of teeth and tongue and molten heat.
She moaned into his mouth.
He teased her through the fabric, slow and punishing, until she was panting and arching, begging without words.
Then he pulled away.
Left her gasping on the bed.
"Don't make me remind them why you're mine," he said, magic crackling at his fingertips. "Because next time, I won't stop."
"Don't ever let another man touch you again," he says, hand at her throat, magic in his eyes.