And beneath all of it, something in me shifts. There is more than one way to win. He thinks this is control. He thinks this is the moment that defines me. He does not understand what comes next.
Idiot.
I lift my eyes to him from beneath my lashes, letting the movement be small enough that it feels like surrender instead of defiance, something soft slipping through the space he believes he controls.
“If it’s any comfort,” I say, forming the words carefully through the pressure that holds me, “I happen to like it rough.”
His grip pauses, not releasing, not retreating, but shifting just enough for me to feel the crack in it.
“And since the moment I met you,” I continue, my voice low and unhurried, as though there is nowhere else I need to be, “I thought we might be… aligned.”
The knife remains pressed to my belly, its point marking the place with quiet insistence, but his attention lifts, drawn upward, caught between suspicion and the promise I am offering him.
“You can keep me like this,” I murmur, allowing the words to soften further, to curl around him. “I don’t mind it.”
A breath moves between us, thick and damp, carrying the sourness of him with it.
“I’m enjoying it.”
He studies my face, searching for something that would betray me, something that would give him reason to doubt what I’m offering, but I give him nothing except what he wants to see.
“Release my hand,” I say, just above a whisper. “Let me show you.”
For a moment, he holds me exactly where I am, as though weighing the risk against the reward he has already decided belongs to him, and then the pressure around one arm begins to loosen, slipping away slowly, inch by inch, until sensation finally returns.
I let my hand rise as though guided by him, as though it belongs to him, placing it against his chest where his breath moves unevenly beneath my palm. The contact draws something from him at once, a shift in his body, a tightening that has nothingto do with control and everything to do with what he thinks is about to happen.
My fingers move downward, unhurried, tracing the length of him through the fabric, feeling the tension there, the anticipation he cannot hide, the weakness he mistakes for power. His mouth parts, and the sound that escapes him is low and unguarded, the knife at my belly dipping slightly as his attention narrows to the path my hand follows.
I let it stretch, let him sink into it, let him forget the way he has me pinned, the way the blade rests where it does, until the moment belongs entirely to me.
When my hand reaches the edge of his trousers, I pause, lifting my eyes to his again, holding him there, suspended.
“May I continue, Highness?” I ask sweetly.
“Yes,” he breathes, the word falling from him without thought.
My hand slips inside. Warmth surrounds my fingers, heat and pulse and the fragile edge of him unraveling beneath my touch, his body leaning into it, his control thinning with every second he allows this to continue.
His mouth opens again. The sound that follows fractures before it can become anything else.
The scream tears through the room as I drive everything into that single point, light and force moving through me in a surge that leaves no space for hesitation. I close my hand and rip, feeling the resistance give beneath it, the moment breaking open in a way that cannot be undone.
His power collapses instantly.
The hold that bound my body vanishes as he falls, folding inward, his face draining as the pain overtakes him, blood spilling fast and bright across the floor.
I draw my hand back, his testicles caught in my grasp, slick and heavy, undeniable in what they are, the blood that follows warm against my skin as it streaks across my wrist and the pale fabric of my gown.
For a moment, I remain where I am, my breath moving through me, the trembling that had been held beneath his control now rising, not breaking me, only sharpening everything into something clearer.
Then I turn toward the door. “Guards.”
They come quickly, the sound of their boots carrying through the hall before they appear, the door opening wide as they enter and take in the room all at once—him on the ground, twisted and writhing, the blood, my hand, what I hold within it.
Shock passes across their faces, but it does not stop them.
“He attempted to assault me,” I say, the words cutting cleanly through whatever they might have asked. “Take him.”
