The sheets were twisted around his lower body, dark against dark, doing little to conceal the powerful lines of his frame. Morning light—such as it was on this ship—filtered through the viewing port, catching the ridges of old scars that mapped his torso like constellations of violence. Each mark told a story. Each story ended with something dead.

Grendel King did not dwell on the past. The past was beneath him.

His eyes, however, were not on the stars.

You moved through his quarters like you owned them, which was absurd. You were property. Less than property—a curiosity, a diversion, a mistake he kept making. The scrap of fabric he'd had made for you barely qualified as clothing: something sheer and ridiculous that showed far more than it concealed. It was supposed to be a dress. On you, it was an invitation.

The marks on your body were his. The faint impression of his mandibles on your shoulder where he'd held you down and taken.

His mandibles clicked softly with satisfaction and in his hand, he turned the dagger over and over. His dagger, still dry with his blood. The one you'd taken from his belt during your... encounter. The one you'd driven into his side as he took you, drawing blood, drawing something from him that he hadn't felt in centuries.

"Are you just going to stare at me all morning?"

Your voice cut through his thoughts like that ridiculous dagger of yours. You'd stopped cleaning—not that there was much to clean; his quarters were immaculate—and was now standing with one hand on your hip, the scrap of fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the marks he'd left.

He should punish that tone. Should remind you of your place, your purpose, your complete and total lack of standing here. Any other captive would be on their knees, grateful for the privilege of breathing in his presence.

You complained about everything. The food. The temperature. The "aggressively masculine" decor. His ship. His warriors. His face, which you had called "the kind of thing that gives children nightmares and not in a fun way."

And yet.

When he gave you a task, you did it with a focus that bordered on obsessive. You cleaned his quarters better than any servant he'd ever had. You organized his weapons with a precision that would shame his finest warriors. You complained the entire time, loudly and creatively, but the work got done.

Last night, he'd had enough.

He'd taken you. Not gently—he didn't know how to be gentle, had never needed to learn. You'd fought. Kicked. Scratched. Tried to bite. And when you'd gotten your hands on his dagger, you'd stabbed him, driving it deep into his side as he drove into you.

The pain had been exquisite.

The pleasure had been something else entirely.

He rose from the bed, sheets falling away, utterly unselfconscious in his nakedness. He crossed to you, towering, letting his shadow fall across your small form.

"You stabbed me," he murmured.

"You deserved it."

"I have not been marked in battle for seventeen years." He brought the dagger up, showing you the dried blood. "Do you know what my brothers would say if they saw this?"

"That you're bad in bed?"

A growl rumbled in his chest—not anger, but something close. Something hungry. "They would say I have found a worthy opponent. A mate who fights back." He pressed the dagger into your hand, curling your fingers around the hilt. "They would say I am weak for keeping you alive."

Your eyes widened, just slightly. "Are you?"

"Weak?" He leaned down, mandibles brushing your ear. "No. I am patient. I have conquered worlds, little flame. I have taken the skulls of beasts that would make your species weep. But you—" His breath hot against your skin. "You make me want. Not conquest. Not trophies. You. All of you. The fire and the fury and the beautiful, foolish defiance."