She needs to show deference. Needs to prove she understands her place.
She doesn’t kneel.
She stays standing, jaw tight, chin lifted. Those storm-gray eyes blazing with defiance that should get her killed.
Gasps ripple through the hall.
“The human dares?—”
“—disrespect before the clan?—”
“—should be broken?—”
I don’t look away from her face. Don’t acknowledge the muttering warriors.
I step closer instead. Her breath hitches and I see her pulse hammering in her throat.
But she doesn’t break.
Doesn’t lower her eyes. Doesn’t kneel.
Primal satisfaction rumbles through me. This one has fangs.
My warlord’s pride bristles at the public challenge—at this tiny human refusing my command in front of my warriors. But underneath that, deeper, there’s something else.
I don’t want her broken. Don’t want another weeping, subservient thing that flinches when I move.
I want this. This fire. This defiance.
You’re losing your fucking mind.
I hold her gaze for another heartbeat, letting the tension stretch. Letting the warriors see. Then I turn away from her, dismissing the challenge, and face my clan.
“She is under my personal protection.” My voice carries to every corner of the hall. “Any who touch her without my leave will lose their hands.” I pause. “Any who harm her will lose their heads.”
The room goes deadly silent.
The threat hangs there, absolute and unbreakable. They know I mean it. Know I’ll follow through.
I catch Thraz exchange a look with Lieutenant Gorak—a tall bastard with more ambition than sense. The look speaks volumes. Conspiracy. Planning. Rebellion brewing.
Let them plot. I’ll crush it when it comes.
Zoraya makes a small sound behind me—something between a scoff and a laugh. When I glance back, one of her eyebrows is arched, and there’s amusement dancing in those eyes.
She thinks my possessiveness is funny.
Infuriating woman.
“Clear the hall,” I order.
The warriors file out quickly, boots and armor clanking against stone. Hadrun lingers near the door until I jerk my head in dismissal. Then he’s gone too, and it’s just me, Zoraya, and the echoing silence of the empty throne room.
And the ceremonial shackles marking her as mine.
She’s studying them again, running her free hand along the black iron bands. “What are these exactly?”
“Insurance.”
