My heart sinks into a black pit of despair. He found me.
I take a step back, then another, my legs trembling with exhaustion and terror. I turn to run, but I know it’s useless.
"Wynter," he calls out, his voice cutting through the wind, calm and laced with a terrifying disappointment. "Did you really think I wouldn't know?"
He takes a step toward me. "Did you really think I would leave a door that you could break? A lock that you could smash?"
He takes another step. "That axe. That door. The storm. I gave them all to you. I wanted to see what you would do. I wanted to see if you would choose the cage of gold, or the wilderness of ice." He sounds almost sad. "You chose the ice."
My blood runs cold. It was a test. All of it. He let me think I was clever. He let me taste freedom, only to snatch it away at the last possible moment.
"You are a monster," I whisper, the words stolen by the wind.
"I am your king," he corrects, his voice dangerously soft as he closes the final distance between us. "And you, my queen, have been a very, very bad girl."
He reaches for me, and this time, there is no gentleness in his touch. There is only the cold, absolute fury of a man who has been betrayed by the one thing in the world he has decided he cannot live without.
Thirty Six
Wynter
Thecoldfuryradiatingfrom Kaden is more terrifying than the blizzard. It’s a living entity, a glacier of rage moving toward me, and I am nothing but a fragile obstaclein its path. His hand clamps down on my arm, his fingers like bands of steel. The gentleness he has shown me over the past few days is gone, burned away by my betrayal.
"You chose the ice," he repeats, his voice a low, guttural growl that is barely audible over the wind. He practically lifts me off my feet, dragging me toward the waiting snowmobile.
"No!" The word is ripped from my throat. I dig my heels into the snow, fighting him with every ounce of my remaining strength. "Let me go! I would rather die out here than be your prisoner!"
His laughter is a harsh, bitter sound. "Death is not an escape,cara. Not from me."
He doesn't bother to argue further. He simply releases my arm, and in one fluid motion, scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder as if I weigh nothing. My stomach hits the hard line of his shoulder, forcing the air from my lungs in a pained gasp. I am a sack of grain, a possession being reclaimed. I beat my fists against the solid muscle of his back, but it’s like striking a mountain. He doesn’t even flinch.
He secures me with one arm and expertly maneuvers the snowmobile back toward the distant, hazy glow of the compound. The journey is a blur of biting wind, engine roar, and suffocating despair. The taste of freedom I had for those brief, glorious moments now feels like ash in my mouth. He didn't just catch me. He allowed me to run, turning my desperate hope into the instrument of my own humiliation.
He doesn't take me through the service entrance. He drives straight to the main terrace, abandoning the machine and carrying me through a set of glass doors into a part of the house I’ve never seen. It’s not our suite. It’s his office.
The room is a shrine to power. Dark wood, leather-bound books, and a massive mahogany desk dominate the space. One wall is a bank of dark screens, currently showing security feedsfrom around the compound. And there, on the wall directly opposite his desk, is a large, empty space, clearly waiting for something. My portrait. The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.
He drops me to my feet in the center of the room. I stumble, catching myself on the edge of his desk. He stands before me, peeling off his gloves, his eyes burning with a cold, merciless fire.
"You wanted to run," he says, his voice deceptively calm. "You wanted to go back to a world that has nothing for you. A world where you are prey."
"It's better than being prey to you," I spit, my defiance a flickering candle in a hurricane.
"You are not my prey, Wynter," he snarls, taking a step closer. "You are my queen. And you have just committed treason." He stalks to his desk, his movements filled with a terrifying, controlled violence. He opens a drawer and removes a long, velvet-lined box. He opens it. Inside, nestled on the dark fabric, is a collection of antique knives, their blades gleaming in the dim light.
My blood turns to ice.
He selects one. It’s a small, wicked-looking blade with an ivory handle, its tip honed to a needle-sharp point. He tests the edge with his thumb, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Every king has a treasury," he says, his voice a silken whisper. "Gold, jewels, land. Things he owns. Things that bear his mark." He walks back toward me, the knife held loosely in his hand. "You are the most valuable thing in my treasury. And I think it's time you bore my mark."
I scramble backward, my legs hitting the front of the desk, trapping me. "Kaden, no. Please."
"Please?" He laughs, a hollow, mirthless sound. "You begged for my touch when I took you in my bed. You will beg for it again. But this… this is not about pleasure. This is about permanence."
He corners me against the desk, one hand clamping down on my shoulder, holding me in place. With the other, he brings the knife not to my throat, not to my face, but lower. He unfastens my trousers with a flick of his wrist and pushes the fabric down, along with the layers beneath, exposing the pale, soft skin of my hip.
"A brand for my property," he whispers, his breath hot against my cheek. "So that no matter where you go, no matter who sees you, they will know you belong to me. So that you will never forget."
