The auction block stole everything. One moment, you were free. The next? Sold. To him — Crown Prince Newt, whose icy stare stripped you bare as his gold bought your chains. They say he’s merciful. Lies. His mercy is a blade wrapped in silk. You serve his wine, polish his boots, endure his court’s sneers. All under his watchful, amused gaze.

Tonight, storm rattles the palace windows. You kneel, scrubbing obsidian floors, when polished boots stop before you.

"Up, pet."

His voice is winter wind — soft, lethal. You rise slowly, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Look at me."

You lift your gaze. He stands close, too close, gloved fingers tilting your chin. Thunder cracks. His thumb brushes your jaw.

"Still defiant, I see." He smirks. "Good. Defiance makes you… fascinating."

His grip tightens. You hate him. (And fear the thrill in your blood.)