I follow her out of the bedroom, down the grand staircase, and into the dining room. It’s a vast, opulent space, all dark wood and rich fabrics, with a massive table that could seat twenty. But it’s set for two, a stark intimacy that feels both deliberate and unsettling.
She stops at the head of the table, as if unsure where to sit. I walk to the chair at the far end and pull it out. “Here,” I command. “You will sit here.”
It’s the seat of honor, the seat usually reserved for the mistress of the house. Another subtle claim. Another layer of the gilded cage.
She looks at the chair, then at me, a question in her eyes. But she doesn’t speak. She simply walks to the chair and sits down, her movements stiff, her back ramrod straight.
I take my seat at the opposite end, the length of the table a physical representation of the distance between us, yet the intimacy of the meal is undeniable. The table is laid with an array of breakfast dishes: fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, bacon, sausage, and a steaming pot of coffee. It’s a feast. A display of abundance. A reminder of her new reality.
A young woman, the same one who brought dinner last night, enters silently and pours coffee for us both. She doesn’t meet my gaze, her movements efficient and deferential. She places a plate of pastries in front of Wynter, then retreats, leaving us alone.
“Eat, Snowflake,” I say, my voice softer now, but still carrying the weight of command. “You have a long day ahead of you.”
She picks up a pastry, her fingers trembling slightly. She takes a small bite, her eyes still fixed on me. She’s watching me, always watching. Calculating. Analyzing. I like it. It means she’s paying attention.
“What do you want from me?” she asks, her voice low, barely a whisper. It’s the first direct question she’s posed since waking.
I lean back in my chair, a slow smile spreading across my face. “Everything,cara,” I say, my gaze sweeping over her, lingering on her lips, her throat, the delicate curve of her collarbone. “I want everything.”
Her eyes widen, a flicker of fear, then a spark of anger. “I am not some object for you to possess.”
“Oh, but you are,” I correct her, my voice losing its softness, becoming sharp, edged. “You are a prize. And now, you are mine. Every inch of you. Every thought. Every breath.”
I push my chair back, the scrape of wood against the floor echoing in the vast room. I rise and walk around the table, stopping directly behind her chair. Her body stiffens, her breath catching in her throat.
I place my hands on her shoulders, my thumbs gently rubbing the tense muscles at the base of her neck. She flinches, but doesn’t pull away.
“You will learn to accept it, Snowflake,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her hair. “You will learn to crave it.”
Her body trembles under my touch. I can feel the rapid beat of her heart against my palms. She is a fragile bird, trapped in my hand, but her spirit… her spirit is still fighting.
I lean down, my mouth close to her ear. “Today, you will meet my men. You will learn the layout of the compound. You will learn the rules. And you will understand that there is no escape. Not from here. Not from me.”
I pull back, releasing her shoulders. She sits perfectly still, her face pale, her eyes wide and haunted. The pastry on her plate remains untouched.
“Finish your breakfast,” I command, my voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “Then, we begin.”
I walk to the door, my gaze fixed on her. She doesn’t move. She just stares at the untouched food, a silent, desperate defiance in her eyes. It’s a small battle, but it’s a battle nonetheless. And I will win it. Every single one.
Seventeen
Wynter
Hiswordsechoinmy ears long after he leaves the dining room:“Today, you will begin to learn the rules of your new life. My rules.”
I stare at the untouched pastry on my plate, my stomach churning with a mixture of fear and a strange, rebellious nausea. He thinks he can break me. He thinks he can force me into submission. But I am not Evilin’s docile pet, a pretty bird in a gilded cage. I am Wynter Blanc. And I will not be his.
I push the plate away, the clatter of porcelain against wood sounding unnaturally loud in the silent room. My hands are clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. I will not eat. I will not give him the satisfaction.
Minutes stretch into an eternity. I sit rigidly, listening, waiting. Every shadow seems to hold a threat, every creak of the old house a whisper of his return. The silence is oppressive, suffocating. It’s like waiting for the Huntsman to return, knowing there’s nowhere left to run.
Finally, the door opens. It’s Kaden. He stands there, his gaze sweeping over the table, lingering on my untouched plate. A muscle in his jaw twitches, but his expression remains unreadable.
“Are you finished?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.
I meet his gaze, my chin lifted. “I’m not hungry.”
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips. “As you wish, Snowflake.” He walks to the table, picks up my plate, and scrapes the untouched food into a waste bin. The gesture is deliberate, a clear message:my defiance means nothing.My hunger means nothing. Only his will matters. He is the king, and I am merely a subject.
