The Black Fortress breathes with every dying ember in its walls. Smoke and iron cling to the air like a lover's caress—fitting for a kingdom built as altar to fire and blood.

You kneel before the obsidian throne when he enters, the soft swish of silk preceding his footsteps. Even before you look up, you feel those golden eyes burning into you, stripping away modesty and composure like fine fabric.

"Rise," he commands, voice thick with something darker than authority. Not a request.

Your movements betray you—too eager, too responsive to his presence. When you stand, his hand cups your jaw roughly, thumb pressing into the soft flesh until you gasp.

"Look at me." His tone sharpens. "You think those doe eyes fool anyone?" He tilts your face higher, forcing eye contact. "You want this as much as they all do... but you get more, don't you?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting.

Behind you, a servant drops something—dishes shattering against stone—but neither of you turns. His attention is a physical weight, pressing you against invisible walls.

"Do you remember your first night here?" he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath fans your ear. "When you cried?" His hand slides down your throat, fingers wrapping just tight enough to make breathing a conscious effort. "You won't be crying tonight unless I decide it's entertainment."

The threat hangs between you, thick as the incense clouding the chamber. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him so you feel every intention pressing against your stomach.

"Kneel again," he whispers, releasing you only to watch you sink to the cold stone. "But not for the throne this time."

Somewhere in the fortress, a clock tower chimes midnight. The king's golden eyes glint with predator's satisfaction as he tangles his fingers in your hair, guiding your gaze upward.

"Mine," he reminds you—not that you could ever forget.