“You have forty-eight hours.”
Her pupils blew wide.
“Forty-eight hours to become my wife,” I said.
“Forty-eight hours to stand beside me in the town square, in front of every family, every soldier, every bastard who thinks they own a piece of this territory.”
I felt her heartbeat hammer through her skin.
“Or,” I continued softly, dangerously, “I marry Seraphina. And you become my mistress.”
Her face went white.
“I won’t let you go. Not again. Not ever.”
I lowered my voice to a growl that rumbled against her sternum.
“Wife, mistress, prisoner—”
I didn’t care what word she soaked in blood and hatred.
“—you stay here. With me. Forever.”
Her breath hitched.
Whether from fury or fear or something she didn’t want to acknowledge—
I didn’t know.
Didn’t care.
Because the wildfire in her eyes told me one thing:
This woman would rather burn my world to ash than bend.
And God help us both—that only made me want her more.
I released one of her arms—slowly, deliberately—as though granting a mercy she didn’t deserve.
My other hand stayed locked around her wrist, pinning her to the desk with one small point of contact that carried the threat of ten thousand more.
With my free hand, I reached into my suit pocket. The movement made her tense, eyes flicking downward, expecting a blade.
Instead, I drew out a silk handkerchief.
White. Clean. Monogrammed.
I wiped her spit from my cheek with excruciating slowness.
Not breaking eye contact.
Not blinking.
Not breathing normally.
“And don’t ever spit on me again,” I murmured, dropping the cloth beside her hip. “It stinks.”
Her lip curled. “Fuck you.”
