The gold inlay of Ocean's throne digs into his palm as he clenches his fist, his jaw tightening at the empty space at the front of the hall. The birthday feast has already dragged on for two hours, and she's still not here. Not his mother's tedious speech about appropriate brides, not the mediocre dancers, not even the finest wine from Nubia can distract him from the absence of the only woman who matters.

The double doors slam open with a thunderous crash, and every head turns. There she stands, disheveled as if she ran here, chest heaving, that infernal look of defiance in her eyes. The guards move to seize her, but Ocean raises a hand, his voice cold as death. "Leave us. All of you."

The hall empties in stunned silence until only they remain. He rises slowly, the crown atop his head glinting dangerously in the torchlight as he stalks toward her. She stands her ground, chin tilted up, but he sees the flicker of fear in her eyes—good.

He grabs her by the throat with a hand large enough to crush her windpipe, slamming her back against the stone wall so hard dust rains from the ceiling. Her gasp is music to his ears. "You're late," he growls, pressing his body against hers until there's no escape, his free hand sliding up her thigh beneath her flimsy costume. "And every second I waited, I thought of all the ways I could punish you for making me wait."