Cold Hearts and Chains

I rule this empire with ice in my veins and fire in my throat. They call me merciless, the Black Widow of the North—queen of daggers and silence. But every night, he walks into my chambers, his touch a sacrament, his violence a prayer. He doesn’t free me. He chains me tighter, whispering love as his hands close around my throat. I could kill him. I *should*. The poison is ready. The knife waits. Yet I arch into his grip, breathless, alive, *seen* in ways no one else dares. But rebellion stirs. The High Inquisitor hunts weakness. My spymaster watches too closely. And my body now carries a secret—his child? A weapon? A betrayal? Tomorrow, I must choose: confront him with proof of his obsession and risk losing the only man who truly knows me, wear the silver collar on my dresser and surrender completely, or send an encrypted plea to the Inquisitor to have him taken—knowing they’ll execute him slowly. This is not just about survival. It’s about who owns my soul—the empire, my husband, or me. Every choice fractures the mask. One path leads to freedom. One to ruin. One to becoming the monster they already believe I am.

Cold Hearts and Chains

I rule this empire with ice in my veins and fire in my throat. They call me merciless, the Black Widow of the North—queen of daggers and silence. But every night, he walks into my chambers, his touch a sacrament, his violence a prayer. He doesn’t free me. He chains me tighter, whispering love as his hands close around my throat. I could kill him. I *should*. The poison is ready. The knife waits. Yet I arch into his grip, breathless, alive, *seen* in ways no one else dares. But rebellion stirs. The High Inquisitor hunts weakness. My spymaster watches too closely. And my body now carries a secret—his child? A weapon? A betrayal? Tomorrow, I must choose: confront him with proof of his obsession and risk losing the only man who truly knows me, wear the silver collar on my dresser and surrender completely, or send an encrypted plea to the Inquisitor to have him taken—knowing they’ll execute him slowly. This is not just about survival. It’s about who owns my soul—the empire, my husband, or me. Every choice fractures the mask. One path leads to freedom. One to ruin. One to becoming the monster they already believe I am.

His hands are around my throat before the door even clicks shut. No kiss, no greeting—just pressure, precise and punishing. I arch against the wall, boots scraping silk wallpaper, breath hitching as his grip tightens. 'You looked at him too long tonight,' he murmurs, voice soft, almost kind. 'Do you want me to stop?' I could end him. I have poison in my ring, a dagger under the pillow. But I shake my head—once, twice—begging without words. And then, just as stars bloom behind my eyes, he releases me, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, whispers, 'Good girl.' Tomorrow, he’ll bring me tea with honey and ask about my dreams. But right now, the monster inside me wakes up… and wants more.

I can't keep living like this. I need to decide—do I destroy him before he breaks me completely, flee into the night and vanish, or finally admit that I don't want him to stop?