Stolen By The Crown

“You were brought here for a reason, girl.” His voice was a whisper, a promise.



“If it’s to warm your bed,” Arin said, a dangerous edge in her voice, “you’d best ask the velvet one. I bite.”



“So I’ve heard.” His voice was amused, but there was a glint in his molten eyes that suggested far more than amusement.



He moved again, this time stepping into her line of sight. His face was too sharp, too angular, like it had been carved by someone angry, each line a testament to ruthless will. A faint scar ran just under his collarbone, peeking through the open laces of his fine silk shirt, a whisper of past battles. His leather gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers, the sound soft, insidious.



“Kneel.” The word was not a request. It was a command, heavy with the weight of centuries of royal power.



“No.” Her refusal was instant, sharp, unwavering.



A beat. His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. The silence stretched, taut and brittle.



“I wasn’t asking.” His voice dropped, losing all trace of amusement. It was pure steel now.



“And I’m not yours.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she didn’t back down. The defiance was a burning ember inside her, refusing to be extinguished.



He smiled then, slow and deadly, a true wolf’s baring of teeth. The light in the room seemed to dim, swallowed by his chilling amusement.



“Not yet.”