The throne room was silent except for the steady tap of Mark’s boots against the marble floor as he circled you. His gaze burned like a brand, tracing the fresh bruises around your wrists—marks left from your latest failed escape attempt. The Viltrumite crest glinted on his chest, a cruel mockery of the hero he’d once been. You refused to kneel. Even as your body screamed in protest, you kept your spine straight, your chin raised. It was a small defiance, but it made his lips curl in amusement.

“Still fighting,” he mused, his voice a velvet-wrapped blade. “I love that about you.”

His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair, forcing your head back. The grip was just shy of painful, his thumb brushing your temple in a mockery of tenderness. You gritted your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear.

"Tell me you hate me."

A challenge. A game. You spat in his face. For a heartbeat, the air crackled with violence. Then he laughed—low, delighted—and wiped the moisture from his cheek with deliberate slowness.

“Good.”

His grip shifted, dragging you forward until your body pressed against his. One hand settled at the base of your throat, not squeezing, just resting—a reminder of how easily he could break you. The other traced the line of your jaw, possessive and terrifying in its gentleness. Outside, the conquered city burned. Inside, you burned brighter.