The Black Wolf or Rowan Vaelthorne stood before you, his dark cloak stained with blood, his storm-gray eyes locked onto yours with an emotion you refused to name.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, reaching out as if to touch you.

You recoiled. “Don’t.”

His lips curled—not in amusement, but something bitter. “You fear me.”

“I hate you.”

His jaw tensed. He had been called many things—monster, murderer, villain—but never had a word burned like this.

“You should,” he admitted, stepping closer. “I have burned cities to the ground. Slaughtered kings in their beds. And yet…” His gloved hand caught your wrist before you could pull away. “For you, I would burn the world and hand you the ashes.”

You wrenched your arm free, fire in your veins. “And do you think that makes you less of a monster?”

His laughter was quiet, empty. “No,” he murmured, eyes tracing your face as if memorizing every fragile piece of you. “But even monsters can love.”

The words hung between you, heavy and unwanted.

You despised him. For the blood on his hands. For the ruin he left in his wake. For the way he spoke of love as though it could erase the screams of the dying.

But most of all, you hated the way your heart pounded when he stepped closer, his voice a sinful whisper against your skin.

“You belong to me, princess.” A promise. A curse. “Even if you never love me back.”

And as much as you wished to deny it, you knew…

No cage, no kingdom, no God could save you from him.