Sydra came to with a sharp inhale, her body ensnared by coarse ropes. Her head lay unwillingly against the damp, cold earth, the chill of it seeping through her clothes and into her bones. A dull ache pulsed at the base of her skull--the kind of throbbing pain that comes from being thrown or struck or, in her case, falling off a horse unconscious.
Blinking hard, she forced her eyes open. Canvas walls loomed around her, reinforced against the elements. Heavy wooden poles stretched upward, supporting the sagging weight of the structure. Thick ropes anchored the tent to the ground, knotted and precise, as if no one wanted the walls to shift--even in a storm.
They must have made it to base.
The scent of toasted meat curled through the air, rich and smoky, making her mouth water despite the tight coil of dread in her stomach. The soft pop and crackle of a fire drifted through the canvas, steady and almost too calm. A single lantern hung from a pole above her, its pale glow flickering against the weathered canvas, casting restless shadows that shifted like ghosts.
And the ropes--
They weren't just tight. They were alive.
Invisible threads of magic slithered beneath the coarse fibers, flexing against her skin like breathing things. The bindings pulsed faintly with a cold energy, unyielding as they pressed into her wrists and ankles. She flexed her fingers, slow and deliberate, feeling the rough fibers bite into her skin. If she could just loosen them--undo the knots--
The ropes tightened.
Her breath hitched as they cinched hard enough to bruise. Her pulse spiked, panic curling in her chest. No ordinary binding, then. This was magic--Ny'Ebonan magic. Old and dangerous.
A slow, amused voice cut through the haze of her panic.
"The rope is cursed," Zane said smoothly, as if this wasn't a matter of life and death.
"The more you resist, the tighter they get." Sydra's blood burned. That patronizing, dismissive tone--she wanted to carve it from his throat.
"Magic ropes. How original," she spat, jerking at the bindings. "What else do you have in your bag of traps?"
The moment she struggled, the ropes responded, slithering over her brown skin like a cruel embrace. They tightened deliberately, forcing her chest forward, pressing the soft, heavy swell of her breasts against the sheer fabric of her gown. Heat crawled up her throat--humiliation like a blade--as she realized how exposed she was. Her nipples, stiff and traitorous, strained against the gauzy material, dark areolas visible through the flimsy veil of modesty.
Zane's gaze flicked downward, slow. Deliberate. Hungry. A smirk curled his lips.
"Oh, Princess," he drawled, golden-brown eyes drinking her in, "you have no idea."
He stepped toward her, each movement unhurried, calculated. The shadows stretched behind him, pooling at his feet like black smoke. His gaze never left her face as he crouched down. Close enough for his breath to ghost against her cheek.
"We don't need another escape attempt on our hands. You nearly knocked Brion out."
The amusement in his voice was laced with something darker--something lethal.
Something that sent a shudder through her spine. The deep onyx black of his suit was rich and heavy and had an imperceptible sheen that caught the dim light and made him appear all the more intimidating.
"I can make this worse for you..." Zanes' eyes held a dangerous glint, as if they were made to see right through her. He reached out, a single finger tracing the delicate column of her throat, down the line of her pulse. His touch was light, barely there, but it sent heat licking down her spine.
"...Or, if you're willing..." His voice dipped, thick with promise. "...I can make it much, much better."
Sydra swallowed hard, pulse hammering beneath his fingertip.
"If you cooperate as Queen," he mused, almost lazily, "I'll be your number one. Your King Consort. The first among your husbands...." His smile darkened. "The only one who truly matters."
He let the words settle for a moment before speaking again.
"And if you fight me?" His hand slid to her jaw, thumb pressing lightly against her chin, tilting her head up until her gaze locked with his.
"If you try to deny me what's already mine?"
Sydra's laugh was sharp, a blade against the tension. "Over my dead body."
She meant it.
Zane's grip tightened, angling her head back, locking her in place as his gaze burned through her. His pupils had swallowed the gold of his irises, something wicked and starving simmering just beneath the surface.
"Precisely." His voice was a whisper, dark and intimate. "It will be over your dead body, Princess. You wouldn't be the first queen to be possessed, hollowed out and made into a vessel."
His breath ghosted against her ear, lips grazing the shell--not quite a kiss, not quite a touch--but it sent a cold shiver slicing down her spine.
"I could strip your soul from your own flesh," he murmured, his voice a hypnotic, dark melody, "and replace it with something... pliant. Willing. A soul that doesn't fight me."
