Instead of fighting, I tilt my head back.
The movement is small—barely noticeable—but we both feel it. A surrender I didn’t mean to offer. An acknowledgment that some part of me wants this, wants him, wants to be owned in ways I’ve never admitted to anyone.
His golden eyes flare with satisfaction.
“Good girl.”
The words hit me like a physical blow—heat and shame and desperate, unwanted pleasure all tangled together. My skin flushes hot, the warmth spreading from my cheeks down my neck to my chest. I feel myself clench around nothing, feel the slick gathering between my thighs, feel my nipples tighten against the leather of my training clothes.
My whole body responds to his praise like it’s been waiting my whole life to hear those words from him.
And underneath all of it—the shame, the arousal, the fury at my own weakness—there’s something else.
Peace.
For one perfect, terrible moment, I don’t have to fight. Don’t have to be strong. Don’t have to carry anything. I’m just a body held in his massive hand, my life resting in his grip, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
It feels like coming home.
“I’m not your—”
“You are.” He leans closer, his face inches from mine while his hand stays firm around my throat. “You’ve been mine sinceyou walked into my arena. Every day you spend in my chambers, surrounded by my scent, your body becomes more mine. Every time I pin you, every time I touch you, every time I praise you—you’re being rewritten, Hannah. Remade into something that belongs to me.”
“That’s not—”
“Tell me you don’t feel it.” His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm of my heart. “Tell me you’re not wet right now. Tell me you don’t dream about me every night, doing things that would make you blush to describe.”
I can’t.
I can’t tell him any of those things, because they’re all true.
“Your silence is answer enough.” He releases my throat and steps back, leaving me swaying on unsteady legs. The absence of his hand feels like a loss—my neck suddenly cold where his warmth had been, my skin aching for contact I refuse to ask for. “Same time tomorrow.”
He walks away, and I don’t watch him go.
I definitely don’t press my thighs together and try not to moan.
I definitely don’t miss the feeling of being helpless.
That evening, I find him in the library.
I don’t mean to—I was looking for somewhere to be alone, somewhere that doesn’t smell like him. But Stone Court’s libraryis vast, and he’s tucked into a corner near the fire, reading something ancient and leather-bound.
I should leave.
Instead, I hear myself ask: “What are you reading?”
He looks up, something flickering in his expression—surprise, maybe, that I sought him out. “A treatise on mountain philosophy. Stone Court’s founding principles.”
“Can you read it? The language, I mean.”
“I wrote parts of it.” He sets the book aside. “Three hundred years ago. The council wanted to codify certain traditions.”
Three hundred years ago. Longer than most human kingdoms have existed.
“How old are you?”
“Seven hundred and thirty-four.” He says it simply, without pride or shame. “Young, by Fae standards. Lord Oberon predates the Sundering itself.”
