In my wrists and throat, a burning tingle that tasted of dark flames. Ravenous, burning frost that buried pointed teeth deep into my marrow and supped on my life force. Gulped down great, heaving swallows of my energy before I had a chance to do more than sense it going to support another.
Stolen.
Warm fingers skated down the length of my exposed spine. Bumping over the ridges—a shiver the only movement I was allowed.
His voice was a soft, cultured hum of debauchery and threat when he asked, “Would you like to learn why your cuffs are called ‘Tritan chains’when there are no chains in sight?”
With my back to the captain, I hadn’t a choice but to stand utterly still. Held perfectly immobile, he left me trembling in the center of his bedroom, my body no longer mine to control. Jaw locked tight, for his question was rhetorical.
“Look at your wrists for me, darling.”
My head bowed and my gaze dropped, and though I tried with all my might to deny the command, I couldn’t help but look.
Glowing.
Bright light burning without heat, the cuffs encircling my wrist were blazing with a brilliance that made my eyes water. But it wasn’t the complete inability to move, nor the threat of what the captain might do with this absolute control.
It was my skin.
Standing rigid beneath the surface, tracing a handspan away from the manacles, my veins were illuminated with the pulse of molten gold.
Asher, infecting my very blood with his tainted, Caledonian influence.
He stepped around me, strolling into my line of vision. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, and dragged the back of his knuckles down my cheek. And then, with a ravenous smirk, he lifted his wrist to show off the matching cuff fused to his skin. A golden circlet glowing withmyenergy. “They allow me to control you,” he murmured. “I can stop you from running with nothing more than a thought.” One finger on my chest, he pushed me back. “I can have you drop to your knees and worship my cock like a seasoned whore,” he continued, herding me toward the couch against my will. “And I can make you like it, though”—he smirked—“that comes from experience, not the chains.”
Panic bubbled up between my ribs, and as if he wanted to hear the desperation in my voice, he released my jaw enough to allow me to say, “Please don’t,” in scarcely more than a whisper. Shamed into begging.
Into beingallowedto beg.
A laugh bubbled up from deep inside his chest, and he said, “Sit,” through that vile smirk that only widened when I obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. “Believe me, pet,” he drawled, and slid one hand up, around the curve of my hip and beneath the cushion—under the scraps of black silk—to cup the sensitive meat of my bottom. “You’ll beg. And it will be beautiful.”
Head falling back, I spat, “I won’t beg to be raped,” through pointed teeth. Letting him feel every bit of my hatred. My helpless wrath.
He watched as my thighs fell apart at the slightest, coaxing touch, then settled between them. One knee pressing against my core, he stooped. Pressed his lips to my neck, teeth rasping over throbbing, delicate flesh. “Do you think the pleasure slaves throw themselves at my feet because I abuse them?” he whispered against my ear, and sent ice shivering through my blood. “Because I force them?”
But in spite of myself, I sneered. Goaded into bickering, despite the way my heart hammered behind my ribs. “You’re right. A good whipping really is the best way to a woman’s heart.”
A wicked grin flicked against the corner of my jaw. “Your heart holds no interest to me, slave,” he murmured, and set his knee to rock against the place where I ached. “And I already have what Ineedfrom you.”
“I’ll die before I service you or your men,” I snarled, trapped beneath him. Unable to so much as lift a finger against his influence. Helpless to the whims of cruelty or mercy. Tormented by the wicked lust flickering in those inky, Caledonian eyes.
Amusement lapped at my senses. Foreign and dark and obliterating my indignant fury, he possessed me. Completely. Filled me with elite energy and left me gasping and disoriented. “You belong to me now, Mila. And I don’t share.”
Tears flooded my lash line, but I clung to the only thing I had left. Snark. “Says the man with a harem of public sex slaves.”
“Purchased for the men I command.”
“That’s the very definition of sharing!”
He laughed before pressing his lips to mine. Stealing my breath, my voice. Every last drop of my sense.
“What I mean to say is that I shall not be sharingyou.” His influence faded away before I could muster a response, leaving me free to squirm. To fight with more than words and wit. “Come,” he said, and pushed off the couch, retreating into an ensuite bathroom without a backward glance. “We’ll be late for supper.”
I scrubbed at my arms, my throat and wrists, trying to shake the feeling of Captain Asher Rawlings crawling through my blood and sinew. Learning everything that I was from the inside out. And, voice shaking, I said, “I’m not hungry,” through a curled lip.
“And I wasn’t asking.”
He reappeared, wearing a black suit that hugged his muscular frame. Glittering with the stars and pins that denoted his rank within the Caledonian army. For a moment, he simply took me in. Dark eyes narrowed, flicking over my clenched fists, my spread, braced feet. And then, “Don’t spoil my good mood with a fight you can’t win, Mila. I can promise you won’t like the consequences.”
