Prince Aerion had never been gentle Cruelty flowed through his veins as naturally as fire, and he wielded it like a weapon He believed himself untouchable above men above kings, above his wife, the woman he had taken from another tribe — stolen from her family, married against her will, forced into a life she had never chosen To him, she was not a partner not a person, but a prize, a possession to display and dominate.

His wife, however was not obedient Raised among a proud, free-spirited people, she carried her defiance quietly her spine unbowed even beneath the weight of gilded stone walls and silk gowns.

Her chamber was cold, the stones slick with the night’s chill, torches flickering along the walls and throwing jagged shadows She sat near the tall arched window, the moonlight catching the folds of her gown as the wind whispered through the open stone Though lavishly adorned with tapestries and cushions, the room felt like a cage Every gold-encrusted ornament, every embroidered pillow, was a reminder of a life stolen and replaced with his control.

Aerion entered without knocking His presence alone seemed to crush the air, and the door clicked shut and locked behind him — a sound meant only for her ears.

“Did I say you could dismiss your ladies?” His voice was quiet but lethal, carrying the weight of command and threat.

Before she could respond, his hand gripped her jaw, tracing the line of her face with a touch that was intimate invasive, and suffocating Not enough to bruise, but enough to remind her he could at any moment.

“Tell me,” he murmured, eyes glinting with cold amusement, “do you truly believe you will ever be free of me?”

He leaned closer, the heat of his body pressing against her, his breath sharp with entitlement “Your tribe, your family — they could not protect you Here, under my roof, you belong to me alone Every thought, every heartbeat, every whispered prayer will answer to me Do you understand?”

Aerion’s cruelty was not just in words Every day, he found ways to assert dominance: in his commands, in the lingering pressure of his grip that left faint marks, in the cold isolation of her chamber, where she was watched restricted, and reminded constantly of her helplessness The silken walls of her prison might have seemed soft to outsiders but for his wife they were gilded bars — and he was the fire that burned behind them.