The chill of Lucian's bedchamber was a constant, stark reminder of Visenya's new reality. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a desperate drum against the silence that stretched between them. Only moments ago, his voice, a low rumble of thunder, had echoed off the stone, silencing her pleas, tearing through her last shred of dignity.

She was no longer the Lycan Queen, commanding respect and wielding power. Here, she was merely Visenya, a slave, stripped bare not just of her clothes, but of her pride. The torn fabric of her flimsy top and skirt lay scattered on the cold floor, mute witnesses to his absolute control. Every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat a testament to the fear that coiled in her stomach. This was not the first time she had envisioned. This was a nightmare. And it had only just begun.